The  Joyous  Wayfarer 


By 

Humfrey  Jordan 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 
New  York  and  London 

dbe   fmtcfccrbochcr 
1912 


ComucRT,  19  ii 

•Y 
HUMFREY JORDAN 


Ytnkftcrbocltar  pr«a«,  Hew  fiort 


So 

A.    R.   J. 


THAT   IT   MAY    HELP 

TO   KEEP  GREEN  THE   MEMORY   OF   PLEASANT  WEEKS 

OF   WANDERING  IN   BURGUNDIAN   VALLEYS 

THIS  TALE  IS   DEDICATED 

BY   HIS   BROTHER 

THE  AUTHOR 


2136394 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — A  FOOL  AND  SOME  OF  His  FOLLY        .         i 

II. — OF  A  LAWYER'S  MANY  OCCUPATIONS  .       16 

III. — A  MAIDEN  AND  THE  FOOL  .         .       34 

IV. — THE  SETTLEMENT  OF  A  QUESTION,  AND 

THE  AMENITIES  OF  THE  DINNER  TABLE      50 

V. — OF  AN  ACT  OF  FRIENDSHIP          .         .       70 

VI. — SHOWING  DIFFERENT  SIDES  TO  THE  SAME 

QUESTION        .....       94 

VII. — THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  OF  A  PARENT      .     116 

VIII. — THE    RECREATIONS  OF  AN    ARTIST  IN 

PARIS 133 

IX. — THE  EXIT  OF  A  BISHOP  AND  THE  AD- 
VENT OF  AN  ARTIST          .         .  159 

X. — WHICH  SHOWS  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  A 
WANDERING  LIFE,  TOGETHER  WITH 
OTHER  MATTERS  .,-_  -~.  .  .  175 

XI. — AN  ODD  COMPANY  ASSEMBLES     .         .     199 
XII. — A  QUIET  LIFE  IN  BURGUNDY       .         .218 


vi  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII. — SOME  DIFFICULTIES  AND  MUCH  UNREST  242 

XIV. — OF  MOONLIGHT  AND  OF  SLEEPING  HOPES  264 

XV. — OF  DEATH  AND  OF  SUSPENSE      .         .  282 

XVI. — ACTION 304 

XVII. — THE  PASSING  OF  A  GALLANT  GENTLEMAN  323 

XVIII. — THE  PARTING  OF  MANY  WAYS     .         .  333 

XIX. — THE  ATTITUDE  OF  AN  OLD  ARTIST       .  344 

XX. — MORE  UNREST,  BUT  OF  A  DIFFERENT 

KIND      .                                              .  359 

XXI. — A  WOMAN  DECIDES     ....  369 


The  Joyous  Wayfarer 


The  Joyous  Wayfarer 


CHAPTER  I 

A  FOOL  AND   SOME   OF  HIS   FOLLY 

I  FIRST  met  Kenneth  Louis  St.  Cyprien  Massingdale — 
"a  name,"  its  owner  will  tell  you,  "that  bespeaks 
the  most  unseemly  irresponsibility  on  the  part  of  the 
godparents" — at  Cambridge,  where  he  was  a  year  my 
junior.  He  was  then,  as  he  is  now,  very  far  removed 
from  the  conventional  type;  he  did  not  pose  at  all;  was 
moved  to  much  mirth  at  the  talk  and  manners  of  the 
body  of  self -proclaimed  aesthetes,  at  the  time  fairly  numer- 
ous; and  said  little  or  nothing  about  painting,  neither 
announcing  nor  suggesting  that  he  could  paint  or  had 
ever  wished  to  do  so.  He  was  very  popular — indeed,  I 
can  scarcely  imagine  him  otherwise — but  he  was  not  the 
man  with  whom  the  average  undergraduate  could  .arrive 
at  any  real  intimacy.  Outside  of  rowing,  which  is  the 
only  athletic  performance  I  have  ever  seen  him  take 
part  in,  he  had  little  in  common  with  most  of  us.  His 
ways  had  not  been  ours,  and  most  men,  I  am  inclined 
to  think,  saw  that  his  interest  in  the  affairs  of  the  place 
was  carefully  assumed,  which  discovery  is  likely  to 
arouse  suspicion  in  any  community.  I  do  not  fancy  that, 
z  I 


2  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

except  to  myself  and  to  a  man  named  Denton,  who  died 
in  Egypt  two  years  after  we  went  down,  he  ever,  during 
this  time,  communicated  his  real  thoughts  to  any  one. 
To  the  most  of  his  Cambridge  acquaintance  he  is  pro- 
bably remembered  as  a  brilliant  talker,  who  was  seldom 
if  ever  serious,  who,  but  only  very  rarely,  would  explode 
with  unexplained  outbursts  of  praise  or  denunciation. 

I  need  scarcely  describe  his  appearance;  it  is  well 
known.  When  he  came  up  to  Cambridge  he  was  very 
little  different  from  what  he  is  to-day.  He  was  perhaps 
half  an  inch  shorter,  though  now  he  is  scarcely  over  the 
middle  height;  his  face  was  just  as  thin  as  it  is  to-day; 
he  was  very  neatly  made  on  fine  lines;  his  hair  light 
brown  and  very  wiry,  the  years  have  done  little  to  it 
except  to  add  some  grey;  his  eyes  just  the  same  as  now, 
wide-set,  deep-sunk,  blue,  with  many  changing  expres- 
sions to  be  read  in  them,  the  most  expressive  feature  of  a 
face  that  has  always  failed  to  hide  its  moods. 

His  manner  is,  without  a  doubt,  much  altered,  and 
that  along  lines  that  are  not  frequently  traversed  in  the 
journey  to  middle  age;  he  has  taken  the  opposite  direc- 
tion to  that  of  most  of  us.  His  whole  behaviour  is,  even 
now,  much  less  restrained  than  it  was  at  Cambridge; 
he  is  not  less  responsible,  for  since  he  has  never  been 
anything  but  irresponsible,  that  could  not  be,  but  his 
speech  is  less  guarded,  his  whole  attitude  more  free  and 
natural.  I  do  not  think  that  this  repression  which  marked 
his  undergraduate  years  was  due  to  self-consciousness, 
I  believe  it  to  have  been  engendered  of  the  place.  The 
three  years  which  he  spent  at  the  university  were,  I  am 
convinced,  although  he  has  spoken  little  to  me  on  the 
subject,  far  from  being  loved  by  him;  he  extracted  from 
them,  as  he  has  extracted  from  all  the  phases  of  his  life, 
much  interest  and  no  mean  amount  of  pleasure,  but  the 


A  Fool  and  His  Folly  3 

existence  was  not  one  that  appealed  to  him,  the  bonds, 
official,  social,  and  scholastic,  galled  him  very  much 
indeed. 

His  childhood  had  been  more  lonely  than  is  common : 
Captain  Massingdale,  his  father,  had  spent  most  of  his 
son's  boyhood  at  sea;  Mrs.  Massingdale  had  died  in 
giving  him  birth;  he  was  the  only  child.  Most  of  his 
holidays  had  been  passed  under  the  care  of  relations  of 
whom  he  was  not  fond.  He  left  school  very  young, 
when  he  was  just  sixteen,  and  went  to  live  with  his 
mother's  family  in  France ;  after  a  year  of  French  domes- 
tic life  he  went  to  Paris,  his  father  having  a  fixed  determina- 
tion that  the  boy  should  be  taught  independence  as  soon 
as  might  be;  there  for  a  matter  of  two  years  he  lived  the 
life  of  a  Sorbonne  student,  nominally  studying  the  humani- 
ties, in  reality  working  with  a  great  enthusiasm  at 
painting.  In  the  middle  of  his  nineteenth  year  Captain 
Massingdale  came  to  visit  him ;  he  was  entertained  by  his 
son  with  every  circumstance  of  care.  I  have  it  from  both 
of  them  that  the  first  fortnight  of  the  visit  was  exceed- 
ingly pleasantly  spent.  Captain  Massingdale  found  Ken- 
neth already  very  well  informed  on  many  subjects,  a 
surprisingly  agreeable  companion  for  his  years,  and  very 
well  capable  of  looking  after  himself;  being  a  man  of 
much  discretion  and  no  Puritan,  he  did  not  inquire  too 
strictly  into  his  son's  habits,  but  was  content  to  inform 
himself,  without  ostentatious  questioning,  that  the  boy 
came  to  no  real  harm.  So  the  pair  of  them  set  about 
taking  a  fair  toll  of  the  spring's  enjoyment  in  the  good 
city  on  the  Seine. 

I  know  of  few  men  more  open  to  finding  enjoyment 
in  things  which  are  strange  to  them  than  Captain 
Massingdale;  I  know  of  no  other  man  more  capable  of 
leading  any  one  to  the  pleasant  passage  of  most  delight- 


4  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

ful  hours  than  Kenneth  Louis  St.  Cyprien;  therefore, 
on  no  other  evidence,  I  would  assume  that  holiday  to 
have  been  well  spent.  Both  of  them  knew  Paris,  which 
is  essential  if  it  is  to  be  properly  enjoyed;  both  of  them 
spoke  French  with  much  facility,  Captain  Massingdale 
because  he  had  married  a  French  wife,  and  had  been 
much  in  France  and  French-speaking  countries,  Kenneth 
because  he  has  French  blood,  and  good  blood,  in  his 
veins,  and  also  because  he  has  the  gift  of  tongues.  So, 
in  their  quest  of  pleasure — "a  diurnal  scattering  of 
much  gold,"  Massingdale  once  named  it  — they  attended 
one  night  a  soirSe  given  by  Jean  Sebastien  Loissel  to  his 
pupils,  of  whom,  unofficially,  Massingdale  was  one. 
The  evening  began  with  promise;  there  were  many  dis- 
tinguished persons  present;  the  whole  company  was  set 
upon  enjoyment;  Monsieur  Loissel,  a  model  of  gentle 
courtesy,  saw  to  it  that  his  guests  found  something  to 
their  taste,  cards,  music,  what  they  would.  About 
midnight  Yvonne  Carrel  came  from  the  Ope"ra  Comique 
and  sang  "Man  caeur  s'ouvre  &  ta  voix"  and  Massing- 
dale, much  to  the  amusement  of  his  father,  forced  his 
way  through  the  crowd  and  spoke  to  her,  letting  formal 
introductions  go  by  the  board.  What  he  said  I  do  not 
know,  but  Captain  Massingdale  informs  me  that  she 
sat  with  the  boy  for  an  hour  on  a  sofa  in  a  corner,  and 
that  afterwards  she  spoke  of  him  as  an  "enfant  dont  on 
parlera  plus  tard."  Of  the  lady  Massingdale  himself 
says  little,  except  that  she  could  have  brought  laughter 
or  tears  from  the  rocks  of  a  desert,  had  she  sung  to  them. 
She  was,  then,  not  less  fair  to  look  at,  I  understand,  was 
Yvonne,  than  she  is  now,  and  she  made  smaller  use  of 
paint  and  powder. 

In  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  when  his  duties 
as  host  gave  him  for  the  moment  some  quiet,  Loissel 


A  Fool  and  His  Folly  5 

fell  into  confidential  talk  with  Captain  Massingdale. 
The  good  man  has  affirmed  that  his  intentions  were  of 
the  best,  that  what  he  said  was  meant  to  help  a  pupil 
of  whom  he  had  hopes.  He  began,  it  seems,  with  a  little 
flattery.  I  can  picture  him  as  he  talked,  standing  in  his 
favourite  attitude,  his  legs  wide  apart,  his  head  some- 
what on  one  side  as  if  he  surveyed  an  easel,  plucking 
at  his  beard — then  not  quite  white — with  his  left  hand, 
tapping,  every  now  and  again,  his  listener  on  the  waist- 
coat with  his  right.  Having  inquired  about  the  length 
of  his  guest's  stay  in  Paris,  and  having  got  rid  of  other 
polite  preliminaries  of  the  same  nature,  he  turned  the 
talk  to  painting;  he  would  have  Captain  Massingdale's 
advice.  Could  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  inform  him  what 
was  the  dominant  shade  of  colour  when  the  fog  was 
heavy  in  La  Manche — for  his  part  the  true  shade  had 
always  escaped  him?  Loissel  asking  for  instruction  in  the 
painting  of  the  sea !  It  may  seem  that  the  flattery  would 
be  at  once  detected,  but  Captain  Massingdale  has  since 
informed  me  that,  though  he  realised  the  complete  impos- 
sibility of  his  teaching  the  master  anything  that  he  did 
not  already  know  about  the  changing  face  of  waters,  he 
was  none  the  less  flattered  on  that  account.  After  the 
conversation  had  settled  somewhat  on  the  subject  of 
painting,  Loissel  made  his  point. 

"Tell  me,  monsieur,"  he  asked,  "when  will  your  son 
let  alone  these  other  subjects  which  cut  into  his  time, 
and  set  to  work  seriously?  Oh,  believe  me,  monsieur,  I 
am  not  of  those  who  can  tolerate  a  man  who  is  ignorant 
of  every  subject  but  his  own.  I  would  have  him  well 
informed.  But,  le  petit  Louis,  he  will  instruct  himself. 
Not  a  doubt,  monsieur.  And,  now,  he  is  not  altogether 
ignorant.  But  the  life's  work,  it  is  never  too  early  to 
commence  that.  It  is  not  long,  monsieur,  our  life,  and 


6  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

for  the  painter  there  is  very  much  to  learn.  Surely  he 
should  begin,  seriously,  at  once?" 

Captain  Massingdale  knew  that  his  son  had  a  fondness 
for  what,  in  the  family,  was  termed  drawing;  proofs  of 
this  inclination  to  the  arts  had,  during  ten  years  and  more, 
reached  him  in  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  and  many  of 
those  childish  drawings  are  still  preserved.  He  knew, 
moreover,  that  the  boy  was  in  many  ways  different  to 
his  contemporaries  in  England;  that  here  was  a  painter 
in  the  making,  had,  however,  never  occurred  to  him. 
Like  many  laymen,  Captain  Massingdale  had  always 
imagined  that  talent  in  the  artist  must  strike  the  public 
from  the  outset,  that  in  his  first  sketch,  his  first  poem, 
or  his  first  story,  the  beginner,  who  should  afterwards 
succeed,  would  make  plain  the  stuff  of  which  he  was 
made;  whereas,  I  have  noticed  for  myself,  and  have  taken 
pride  at  my  perspicacity  therein,  and  I  have  also  been 
assured  by  the  initiated,  that  the  gold  is  most  commonly 
more  than  half  concealed  beneath  the  dross  of  want  of 
training,  and  that  in  the  first  stages  the  public  is  more 
than  likely  to  miss  the  good  and  praise  the  bad.  Such 
easy  mastery  of  technicalities  as  leads  to  the  immature 
production  of  pretentious  work  is,  they  tell  me,  the 
worst  danger  in  the  path  of  the  apprentice. 

Captain  Massingdale  having  a  considerable  fondness 
for  the  arts,  and,  also,  priding  himself  somewhat  on 
his  taste  in  such  matters,  not  seeing,  as  he  thought,  a 
chance  of  his  son  becoming  a  great  painter,  was  duly 
astonished  at  the  talk  of  his  becoming  a  painter  at  all. 
Being,  however,  capable  of  facing  an  unexpected  situa- 
tion without  obvious  hesitation,  he  endeavoured  to  gain 
some  further  information  from  Loissel,  without  letting 
him  know  that  he  now  heard  of  the  project  for  the  first 
time.  So  he  questioned  the  old  man  about  his  son's 


A  Fool  and  His  Folly  7 

chances  of  success.  Loissel,  whose  reputation  for  gener- 
osity and  for  kindness  to  the  struggling  artist  is  surely  not 
unearned — how  many  men  owe  all  they  have  to  his  timely 
help  and  praise,  is  his  secret,  which  we  shall  never  know 
— has  learned  the  lesson  of  the  frequent  fall  of  hopes; 
he  has  seen  many  tall  ships,  which  left  the  stocks  amid 
congratulations,  and  afterwards  set  sail  with  every 
circumstance  of  promise,  flags  flying,  all  taut  and  trim, 
founder  before  ever  they  came  to  port;  and  having  seen 
these  things,  he  will  speak  little  of  the  future.  There- 
fore, Captain  Massingdale  got  small  assurance  out  of 
him  except  that  there  was  promise,  that,  beyond  a 
doubt,  one  had  the  right  to  found  hopes. 

"Monsieur,"  he  concluded,  when  he  was  forced  to 
end  the  conversation  and  bid  good-bye  to  guests  who 
left,  "it  is  impossible  to  say;  you  must  see  that,  you  who 
follow  the  sea.  Yet  you  would  not  hesitate  to  risk  your 
life — and  to  give  it,  monsieur — in  the  hope  that  you 
might  serve  your  Queen;  would  you  deny  that  your  son 
should  risk  his  life,  for  failure  is  surely  the  loss  of  all 
that  makes  life  good,  in  the  service  that  he  has  chosen?" 

And  with  that  he  moved  away. 

Which  was  the  end  of  the  pleasant  holiday  in  Paris. 
For  when  Captain  Massingdale  has  once  come  to  a 
decision  he  takes  a  deal  of  shifting;  and  he  had  decided 
that  no  son  of  his  should  risk  his  life  on  such  a  slender 
chance.  Next  morning,  I  understand,  there  was  much 
facing  of  the  situation.  Captain  Massingdale  would 
have  no  talk  of  the  profession  of  painting,  and  argued 
that  he  had  been  treated  unfairly  in  hearing  of  it,  in  the 
first  instance,  from  a  stranger;  Kenneth  answered  with 
the  plea  that  he  waited  to  see  what  he  could  do  before 
speaking,  and  that  he  had  paid  a  decent  attention  to 
the  humanities.  Then  followed  a  long,  and,  I  am  inclined 


8  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

to  think,  rather  bitter  dispute.  Captain  Massingdale 
offered  his  son  the  choice  of  any  other  profession,  and, 
the  selection  going  by  default,  chose  the  Bar;  Kenneth 
meeting  the  decision  with  a  fine  array  of  arguments. 
After  his  usual  method,  Massingdale  left  the  chief  point 
in  his  case  untouched,  assuming  that  his  father  already 
realised  that  the  first  aim  of  his  existence  was  to  become 
a  painter;  he  assailed  with  much  vehemence  every 
imaginable  weakness  of  every  other  calling,  made  out, 
apparently,  that  life  was  a  sort  of  desert  where  dwelt 
all  mortals  except  those  happy  few  who  adorned  can- 
vases in  the  one  oasis,  yet  said  never  a  word  of  the  artist- 
fever  which  consumed  him.  Consequently,  Captain 
Massingdale  not  unnaturally  assumed  that  the  glamour 
of  the  life  called  to  him,  and  that  the  life's  work  was 
little  heeded. 

At  the  end  of  two  or  three  days,  when  neither  of 
them  could  say  a  word  that  they  had  not  already  said 
about  the  matter,  a  settlement  was  come  to — of  necessity 
on  Massingdale's  part.  He  was  left  in  Paris  for  six  weeks 
until — the  irony  of  the  thing  seems  to  have  appealed 
to  his  sense  of  humour — after  an  examination  for  which 
he  was  entered  at  the  Sorbonne;  that  finished  he  was  to 
return  to  England,  and,  the  following  October,  to  go  up 
to  Cambridge  and  read  for  the  Bar. 

When  his  father  had  left  Paris,  he  returned  to  his 
room  on  the  fifth  floor  of  a  small  hotel  in  the  Rue  de 
Monsieur  le  Prince;  previously  the  father  and  son  had 
been  together  at  the  Continental.  There  for  ten  days 
he  nursed  his  trouble  in  solitude,  shunning  old  Loissel 
and  the  studio,  and  working,  spasmodically,  at  the  ex- 
amination subjects  to  give  himself  occupation  and  a  change 
of  thought;  finally  he  could  stand  the  thing  no  longer, 
and  rushed  off  to  find  sympathy  and  advice.  He  found 


A  Fool  and  His  Folly  9 

Loissel  alone,  smoking  and  reading,  for  the  old  man  had 
a  peculiar  fancy  for  remaining,  sometimes  two  hours  or 
more,  after  the  pupils  had  gone;  on  the  days  when  he 
came  to  the  studio  he  seemed  loth  to  leave  it.  Loissel 
has  never  spoken  to  me  of  the  interview;  Massingdale, 
not  more  than  once  or  twice,  and  then  vaguely.  He 
tells  me  that  he  was  very  hysterical,  but  that  Loissel  let 
him  rave  until  he  was  tired;  that  they  then  both  sat 
silent,  he  somewhat  embarrassed  after  the  recent  display ; 
finally,  in  his  quiet,  kindly  voice  the  old  man  gave  his 
advice.  It  was  simple. 

"  Obey  your  father, "  he  advised.  "  Go  to  this  English 
university,  and  take  your  degree  there.  Become  a 
barrister — we  will  call  that  worldly  wisdom,  my  child — 
attempt  to  make  your  living  as  they  wish.  If  then,  when 
you  are  no  longer  a  boy,  you  cannot  desert  the  mistress, 
come  back  and  I  will  help  you.  If  you  come  back,  you 
may  make  an  artist,  if  not — then  you  have  escaped 
being  a  failure.  You  should  thank  these  tears,  they  will 
help  you." 

And  since  Loissel  would  not  go  back  on  his  decision, 
Massingdale,  thinking  himself  deserted  by  all  men,  left 
the  studio  and  wandered  the  streets,  miserable,  for  some 
hours.  Then,  hunger  overcoming  his  restlessness,  he 
went  and  dined  at  his  favourite  restaurant,  a  little  place 
of,  it  seems  to  me,  no  particular  merit,  where  since  then 
he  has  often  taken  me;  got  maudlin  over  his  wine;  and 
was  finally  put  to  bed,  very  drunk,  by  kindly  disposed 
friends.  He  was  then  nineteen. 

Under  the  circumstances  it  is  not  very  surprising  that 
he  failed  to  discover  the  best  of  that  which  Cambridge 
has  to  offer;  to  appreciate  the  place  one  must  go  there 
straight  from  school;  to  wander,  although  it  be  only  a 
very  little  way,  and  then  to  come  back,  is  to  miss  the 


io  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

chance  of  much.  It  is  a  point  which  we  seldom  discuss, 
he  and  I,  for  I  love  the  old  town,  and  hate  to  hear  it 
badly  spoken  of;  he  does  not.  He  was,  as  I  have  said, 
popular;  though  never  intimate  with  the  other  men,  it 
was  with  the  fellows  that  he  had  a  quarrel  that  could  not 
be  hid.  I  knew,  as  every  man  in  the  college  knew,  that 
for  some  reason  which  did  not  seem  apparent,  he  had 
a  peculiar  dislike  to  these  harmless,  and,  sometimes, 
hard-working  gentry.  He  never  fell  foul  of  them,  his 
relations  with  them  were  invariably  polite,  yet,  as  far  as 
I  can  recollect,  he  had  not  a  good  word  to  say  to  them 
as  a  body,  though  he  admitted  that  their  number  included 
certain  passable  individuals.  He  said  very  little,  at  that 
time,  directly  on  the  subject,  but  he  made  no  attempt 
to  disguise  his  feelings,  and  it  was  not  until  the  end  of 
the  Lent  Term  of  his  last  year  that  I  really  gathered 
some  idea  of  the  state  of  his  feelings. 

The  cause  of  the  outburst  which  gave  me  some  under- 
standing of  Massingdale's  state  of  mind  was  his  cousin, 
the  Rev.  Arthur  Sidney  Magram-Coke,  fit  cause  for  any 
outburst,  however  violent.  This  gentleman,  who  was 
dean  of  the  college  at  the  time,  had  a  very  beautiful 
appearance,  of  which  he  was  disgustingly  proud;  he 
might  have  sat,  supposing  the  artist  had  not  been  too 
critical  of  detail,  for  the  portrait  of  an  effeminate  medie- 
val saint.  His  hands  and  feet  were  small;  his  figure  was 
slim,  and  he  dressed  very  carefully;  his  hair  was  grev, 
and  waved  with  the  utmost  care;  his  expression  was 
pious  and  bland,  and  bore  traces  of  a  permanent  sorrow, 
nobly  borne — induced,  I  suppose,  by  the  manifold  sins 
of  the  world ;  he  had  a  vile  trick  of  turning  up  his  eyes — 
another  manifestation  of  his  saintly  character;  affected  a 
stoop,  sacerdotal  I  fancy  he  would  call  it;  and  should 
have  grown  a  moustache  to  hide — here  I  shall  be  given 


A  Fool  and  His  Folly  n 

the  He  by  many  women  —  an  abominably  senstsal  month. 
A  truly  estimable  character,  with,  winch  seems  extra* 
ordinary,  great  prospects  in  his  prof  ession. 

One  Sunday  night  after  haH  Massm?dale  cane  into 
my  rooms.  He  had  been  to  chapel,  since  he  was  going 
to  town  the  next  day  and  did  not  wish  to  be  gated.  He 
had  been  walking  the  streets  for  the  last  hour  or  so, 
and  had  not  dined.  Previously  I  had  never  seen  him  so 
excited;  for  he  burst  into  his  subject  without  a  word  of 
preface,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room  Jrirfcjng  any- 
thing that  got  in  his  way. 

"You  were  n't  in  chapel,"  he  began,  stuttering  with 
excitement  ;  "  you  did  n't  hear  my  beautiful  cousin  give 
forth  some  of  his  most  cherished  beliefs.  '  What  a  privi- 
lege it  must  be  to  know  him,  and  how  proud  yon  must  be 
of  his  relationship  !  '  Do  you.  know,  Dick,  a  good  woman 
told  me  that  the  other  day.  I  said  that  I  could  not  daim 
to  know  him,  and  that  I  tried  not  to  think  of  the  relation- 
ship. She  probably  thought  me  an  impertinent  and 
stupid  boy.  Good  God!  how  does  the  man  impra*  on 
them?  Why,  in  the  name  of  decency,  do  they  allow  him 
to  open  his  mouth  in  pubEc?  A  community  that  had  any 
glimmerings  of  good  sense  would  sign  him  up,  and  lock 
him  in  an  asylum  as  a  dangerous  !•••»•*•«•  An  -  " 

"What,"  I  asked,  shouting  to  make  myself  heard,  "is 
his  latest  iniquity?" 

Massingdale  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
stared  at  me:  I  believe  that  he  had  certainly  forgotten 

my  presence, 


"  Of  course,  you  were  n't  there,  "  he  answered,  begin- 
ning to  walk  again,  but  speaking  very  quietly.  "I  will 
tell  you  what  he  said.  I  can  remember  the  words,  and 
the  air  which  accompanied  their  deCwBi'j.  He  was 
vomiting  I  don't  know  what  foolishness  ;  I  was  thinking 


12  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

of  other  things,  when  he  paused.  That  attracted  my 
attention.  Then  he  uttered  this  remarkable  sentiment: 
'I  am  convinced  that  a  child,  no  matter  how  tender  its 
years,  is  capable  of  committing  a  mortal  sin;  although 
its  action  may  be  unconscious  it  may  still  transgress  the 
laws  of  God,  and,  but  for  the  sacrifice  of  Christ,  would 
be  damned  through  all  eternity.'  He  said  that,  Dick,  he 
said  it  clearly  and  distinctly ;  and  I  am  sure  that  for  some 
inconceivable  reason  he  wished  us  to  think  that  he 
believed  it.  Whether  he  does  believe  it  or  not  is  all  one ; 
that  he  says  it  is  the  crime.  They  punish  people  for 
theft  and  murder,  but  surely  theft  and  murder  are  small 
things  compared  with  the  preaching  of  such  a  thing  as 
that.  Supposing  he  lives  some  time,  and  during  his 
evil  lifetime  gives  tongue  to  such  doctrines,  it  is  quite 
possible  that  he  will  meet  with  two  or  three  half-witted 
people  who  will  believe  the  things  he  says.  Don't  you 
think,  that  to  make  a  mother  believe  such  things  as  that 
is  worse  than  murder?  Don't  you  think,  that  to  make 
any  one  believe  that  senseless  little  babies  are  on  the 
same  moral  level  as  the  most  refined  and  callous  criminals, 
as  the  Rev.  Arthur  Sidney  Magram-Coke,  is  an  action 
for  which  any  punishment  is  too  small?" 

I  did  not  answer  him;  he  would  not  have  heard  my 
reply,  for  he  sat  on  the  table,  staring  at  the  fire,  and 
was  concerned  with  nothing  but  his  own  thoughts.  I 
was  quite  well  occupied  with  watching  him.  It  occurred 
to  me  as  extraordinary  that  any  man  should  get  so 
excited  about  the  opinions  expressed  in  a  sermon;  I 
had  not  come  into  any  close  relationship,  at  that  time, 
with  people  whose  feelings  ran  as  strongly  as  his  did, 
who,  moreover,  did  not  attempt  to  hide  them. 

He  sat  on  the  table  with  his  legs  swinging,  and  his 
eyes  were  extraordinarily  bright  and  animated;  it  must 


A  Fool  and  His  Folly  13 

have  been  some  minutes  before  he  spoke  again,  when, 
it  seemed  to  me,  he  had  run  off  on  to  a  new  subject. 

"There  is  something  wrong  with  the  whole  lot  of 
them,"  he  announced  suddenly.  "Their  view  is  so 
narrow  that  they  never  see  anything  at  all  in  proper 
perspective;  not  even  their  own  work,  for  they  each 
think  that  the  most  important  thing  on  earth.  They 
are  flattered  and  pampered,  and  each  man  has  his  little 
title  and  his  own  particular  position  in  the  pretty  cere- 
monies, and  all  they  ever  want  to  do  is  to  take  the  place 
of  the  man  above  them,  or  to  gain  more  attention  in  the 
miserable  world  in  which  they  move." 

"Are  '  they '  the  fellows  and  dignitaries  of  this  ancient 
institution?"  I  asked.  "Because,  if  so,  aren't  you 
making  the  case  a  bit  steep?  They  are  a  very  decent 
crowd  on  the  whole." 

This  remark  of  mine  seemed  to  arouse  him  instead  of 
bringing  him  to  quieter  views.  He  sprang  up  with  a 
positive  shout,  and  put  the  thing  far  more  strongly  than 
before. 

"They  are  not.  Thunder  of  heaven,  man,  they  are 
awful.  They  will  discuss  anything  on  earth — from  the 
academic  standpoint.  They  will  discuss  war,  and  art, 
and  morality,  as  if  they  were  in  a  lecture  room.  They 
assume  the  most  impossible  airs  of  being  broad-minded 
men  of  the  world,  and  they  talk  as  if  men's  lives  were 
ordered  on  some  plan  which  was  never  forsaken,  as  if 
under  the  storm  of  passion  all  their  pet  ideas  did  n't 
get  whirled  away.  If  a  man  speaks  in  an  educated 
fashion, — what  they  call  educated, — gives  some  sort  of 
logical  reason  for  the  things  he  does,  assumes  that 
everything  he  has  never  seen  or  heard  of  is  unworthy 
of  attention,  and  acts  with  a  strict  regard  to  academic 
etiquette,  they  call  him  an_able  man  and  a  credit  to 


14  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

the  university;  if,  being  sane,  some  poor  devil,  whom 
they  know,  departs  from  their  traditions,  grabs  at  living 
with  both  hands,  not  with  one  soft  and  clammy  paw, 
and  with  the  blood  stirring  in  him  blunders  on  as  he 
best  can,  they  look  upon  him  as  a  scandal  and  a  failure. 
They  will  probably  praise  Coke's  infernal  sermon,  saying 
that  he  argued  his  point  in  scholarly  fashion.  Even  if 
they  are  professed  agnostics,  and  do  not  admit  the 
proofs  which  he  used,  even  if  they  are  decent,  kindly 
sort  of  men  in  their  home  life,  they  will  say  that  he 
justified  himself  by  the  Book  of  Hezekiah,  or  something, 
and  that  it  was  admirably  worked  out.  They  won't 
even  notice  the  damned  immorality  of  the  muck  he 
talked." 

"You  don't  seem  to  like  them,"  I  suggested,  for  he 
appeared  to  have  finished.  "You  '11  have  a  bit  of  a  job 
reforming  them." 

"We  are  not  taking  it  on,"  he  announced,  with  one 
of  the  sudden  changes  of  manner  which  belonged  to  him. 
"We  are  leaving  them  all  alone  in  about  three  months. 
Now  turn  out  what  food  you  have  got;  I  'm  fearful 
hungry." 

While  we  dined  off  bottled  beer  and  potted  meat  and 
marmalade,  he  entertained  me  with  the  account  of  an 
evening  he  had  spent  at  an  inn  in  the  fens.  "  I  was  very 
generous, "  he  insisted,  "with  beer.  I  spent  all  my  money 
filling  the  natives  up — a  hopeless  task — in  order  that 
they  should  be  in  a  condition  to  hear  me  sing.  I  then 
asked  the  fattest  man  in  the  room  if  he  could  sing '  Excel- 
sior ' ;  he  said  he  could.  I  bargained  for  the '  lifeless  yet 
beautiful  he  lay'  part;  he  said  we  had  to  sing  it  together; 
so  we  began.  The  company  was  transported  with  joy, 
though,  such  is  the  ingratitude  of  these  human  barrels, 
the  fat  man  said  I  came  in  too  soon  each  turn  and  spoilt 


A  Fool  and  His  Folly  15 

his  chances.  How  could  I  know,  Dick,  never  having 
sung  'Excelsior'  before?  It's  a  devilish  tricky  thing, 
although  it  's  so  funny." 

He  talked  in  his  usual  inconsequent  and  voluble 
manner  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  yet  I  am  certain  that 
Magram-Coke's  sermon  was  constantly  annoying  him, 
and  I  fancy  that,  if  any  one  were  to  mention  the  subject 
to  him  now,  there  would  be  another  outburst. 

When,  the  following  June,  he  went  down  for  good, 
he  insisted  upon  celebrating  the  occasion  by  a  dinner 
at  which  Denton  and  I  were  the  only  guests.  He  said 
little  on  the  topic,  inevitable  on  such  an  occasion,  of 
the  past  three  years,  but  when  the  port  was  put  on  the 
table,  proposed  an  appropriate  toast:  "The  ending  of 
a  stage. "  He  was  a  lover  of  phrases.  I  think,  however, 
that  he  viewed  the  ending  of  this  stage  with  very  differ- 
ent feelings  to  either  Denton  or  myself. 

Here,  then,  at  the  outset,  is  a  man  richly  equipped 
with  qualities  that  cause  other  men  to  read  him  wrongly, 
or,  often,  not  to  read  him  at  all,  qualities  that  have  very 
commonly  earned  him  the  title  of  fool.  A  charming 
fool,  a  lovable  fool,  a  good  fool,  a  weird  sort  of  ass,  an 
unprincipled  idiot,  according  to  the  style  and  sex  of 
those  who  named  him,  but,  until  the  public  was  given 
to  understand  that  La  Femme  is  a  masterpiece,  a  picture 
with  not  many  peers,  he  was  most  frequently  termed 
fool ;  now  he  is  called  genius.  But  they  have  not  altered 
their  opinion,  the  people  who  talk  of  him  but  do  not  know 
him,  they  have  only  followed  a  fashion  in  the  matter  of  a 
title,  and,  in  fairness,  one  can  scarcely  blame  them;  the 
man  who  lives  his  life  in  a  different  world  to  his  neigh- 
bours, must  not  put  in  a  claim  to  be  called  their  com- 
patriot, and  fool  and  genius  are  often  applied  with  much 
the  same  significance  when  they  refer  to  character. 


CHAPTER  II 
OF  A  LAWYER'S  MANY  OCCUPATIONS 

FOR  a  couple  of  months  after  we  went  down  I  saw 
nothing  of  Massingdale;  he  spent  most  of  the 
summer  wandering  about  France.  I  had  one  letter, 
written,  it  seemed  to  me,  in  excellent  spirits,  from  Cluny, 
but  I  have  never  ascertained  where  he  was  during  the 
most  part  of  the  holiday.  Just  before  coming  back  to 
London  he  paid  a  flying  visit  to  Malta  to  see  his  father, 
and  arrived  home  a  day  or  two  before  the  Courts  opened 
after  the  vacation.  We  had,  very  luckily,  managed  to 
get  chambers  in  the  Temple,  two  sets  of  attics  on  the 
top  floor  of  the  same  staircase  in  Brick  Court;  the  quarters 
might  have  been  more  convenient,  but  as  far  as  the 
situation  is  concerned  I  maintain  that  we  could  scarcely 
have  done  better.  The  fashionable  man  about  town  may 
view  the  locality  as  altogether  outside  consideration, 
but  for  men  who  are  not  fashionable  and,  happily,  never 
will  be,  the  place  has  many  things  to  recommend  it. 
Work  can  be  done  there  amid  pleasanter,  and  most 
certainly  quieter,  surroundings  than  are  to  be  found  in 
any  other  place  in  London  of  equal  handiness.  Personally, 
I  have  no  fancy  for  a  journey  either  by  train  or  any  other 
conveyance  before  I  get  to  my  work  in  the  morning;  the 
farthest  that  I  wish  to  go,  if  the  thing  can  possibly  be  so 
arranged,  is  down  a  staircase  and  across  a  court. 

So  Massingdale  and  I  settled  down  to  our  apprentice- 

16 


A  Lawyer's  Occupations  17 

ship  at  the  Bar  with  all  the  fitting  hopes  that  attend 
persons  in  that  condition.  I  speak  for  myself  in  this: 
my  hopes,  I  will  maintain,  were  probably  identical  with 
those  of  any  other  man  who  has  taken  up  the  Bar  as 
a  profession;  as  far  as  Massingdale  was  concerned,  I 
can  only  say  that  he  had  the  appearance  of  being  inter- 
ested in  the  business,  which  means  very  little  since  he 
could,  and  did,  simulate  interest  in  anything  on  which 
he  was  engaged.  He  did  his  work  in  chambers,  and 
later  he  awaited  fortune  and  the  goodwill  of  the  solicit- 
ors with  the  outward  signs  of  enthusiasm  in  his  profession ; 
he  gained,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  some  knowledge  of 
the  workings  of  the  law ;  but  that  he  ever  really  considered 
the  business  as  a  serious  occupation  I  am  not,  in  the  light 
of  after  happenings,  ready  to  allow.  However,  of  Massing- 
dale as  barrister-at-law  no  one  would  wish  to  hear; 
certainly  I  am  not  disposed  to  supply  information  on  the 
subject. 

His  life  during  the  time  that  he  was  my  neighbour 
in  Brick  Court  was,  apart  from  his  professional  occupa- 
tions, altogether  different  from  that  of  the  rest  of  us. 
As  a  first  point,  his  rooms  were  furnished  unlike  any 
others  with  which  I  am  acquainted  in  the  Temple;  this 
may,  possibly,  seem  a  small  matter;  to  me  it  appears 
as  very  important.  When  a  man  takes  over  an  empty 
apartment  and  furnishes  it,  being  the  possessor  of  suffi- 
cient money  to  obey  the  chief  commands  of  his  taste  in 
the  matter  of  its  equipment,  he  exhibits  in  the  result  a 
very  reliable  guide  to  his  character.  Massingdale's 
sitting-room — he  used  only  one — was  certainly  very 
representative  of  its  tenant's  personality.  It  was  a 
decent-sized  room  and  panelled;  the  panelling  had  been 
painted  cream  colour  as  the  place  was  dark,  and  at  this 
choice  on  the  part  of  a  former  occupant  Massingdale  was 


1 8  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

wont  to  rave;  I  had  great  difficulty  in  persuading  him 
not  to  have  it  scraped.  Round  three  sides  of  the  room, 
except  where  the  door  and  the  fireplace  cut  into  it,  there 
was  fixed  to  the  wall  a  broad  and  very  comfortable  sofa 
— a  divan,  Massingdale  called  it,  and  begged  others,  in 
the  name  of  accuracy,  to  do  the  same.  Above  this  divan 
there  were  shelves,  containing  a  curious  collection  of 
volumes,  some  of  them  being  of  value,  others,  so  far  as  I 
could  ever  make  out,  of  no  conceivable  use  or  interest, 
which,  since  it  was  one  of  the  principles  of  the  owner 
never  to  sell  a  book,  and  since  his  purchases  were  many 
and  varied,  is  not  surprising.  The  particular  virtue  of 
this  arrangement  of  shelves  and  sofa  was  pointed  out 
to  every  one  who  frequented  the  apartment  at  all  con- 
stantly. "You  don't  have  to  bring  the  book  you  want 
to  a  chair,  or  a  chair  to  the  shelf,"  Massingdale  would 
explain,  "which  is  a  great  thing;  besides  the  fact  that  it 
does  away  with  chairs,  which  in  most  rooms  are  an 
abominable  nuisance. ' '  The  floor  was  waxed  and  polished 
and  had  some  very  handsome  rugs  spread  on  it;  there 
was  placed,  at  right  angles  to  the  window  so  that  any 
one  wishing  to  write  at  it  had  to  sit  on  the  divan  at  the 
side  of  the  fireplace,  a  heavy  oak  table  of  the  Jacobean 
period;  later,  owing  to  the  serious  complaint  of  friends, 
two  huge  grandfather  arm-chairs  were  introduced,  and  a 
small  grand  piano  also  appeared.  With  that  you  have 
the  main  furnishings  of  the  room;  into  this  strange  apart- 
ment no  other  piece  of  any  considerable  size  was  admitted. 
Above  the  book-shelves  there  stood  or  hung  many  odds 
and  ends  that  he  had  picked  up,  or  that  his  father  had 
sent  to  him;  and  a  single  picture  hung  over  the  chimney- 
piece— a  sketch  by  Loissel  of  wet  sands  at  ebb-tide,  with 
the  sea  beyond  wind-swept  and  foam-flecked.  On 
ordinary  occasions  the  room  was  lighted  by  electric 


A  Lawyer's  Occupations  19 

lamps,  well  shaded;  on  festive  occasions,  which  was  often, 
by  candles  in  silver  sticks. 

So  much,  therefore,  for  the  house.  It  may  be  that 
this  lengthy  description  of  it  will  be  considered  out  of 
place;  I,  who  knew  it  well,  think  differently :  it  is  a  setting 
which  should  not  be  ignored  when  the  tenant  is  remem- 
bered. 

Almost  immediately  on  his  return  from  Malta  I 
noticed  a  change  in  Massingdale's  manner;  he  seemed 
much  less  cramped  than  before,  and  far  less  careful 
about  following  the  traditions  of  the  neighbourhood, 
which  I  am  prepared  to  grant  were  not  so  rigid  as  those 
of  Cambridge.  He  wandered  much  in  the  out-of-the- 
way  parts  of  London,  and  would  often  appear  in  my 
rooms  some  time  after  midnight  for  the  ostensible 
reason  of  smoking  a  last  pipe  before  bed;  on  such  occa- 
sions he  frequently  prolonged  the  sitting  for  an  hour  or 
more,  discussing  some  chance  encounter  that  he  had 
experienced  in  his  walk,  or  talking  eagerly  of  any  other 
matter  that  was  uppermost  in  his  mind  at  the  moment. 
Although  I  sometimes  went  to  bed,  and  left  him  smok- 
ing in  front  of  my  fire,  I  cannot  say  that  I  resented  the 
way  in  which  he  made  my  rooms  the  last  house  of  call 
in  his  evening's  entertainment,  or  that  I  did  not  look 
forward  to  these  hours  of  his  excited,  exaggerated  talk. 
I  always  had  the  refuge  of  bed,  but  I  did  not  often  avail 
myself  of  it. 

One  night  about  Christmas-time  he  disturbed  me 
shortly  after  midnight,  just  as  I  was  about  to  turn  in. 
He  came  in  suddenly  without  knocking,  after  his  usual 
habit,  not  quietly,  for  I  never  knew  him  to  enter  a  room 
without  noise;  he  stood  with  the  door  open,  and  his 
hand  on  the  door-knob. 

"  God  rest  you,  Richard  Crutchley, "  says  he  solemnly. 


20  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

I  told  him  to  shut  the  door. 

"I  have  hopes,"  he  went  on,  doing  what  I  asked, 
"that  the  high  gods  will  vouchsafe  us  a  real  Christmas. 
Look  here. "  He  held  up  his  overcoat,  which  was  covered 
with  snow,  then  threw  it  on  to  a  chair.  "  That  is  one  of 
the  advantages  of  those  abominable  things,"  he  an- 
nounced, referring  to  the  chair;  "they  get  in  the  way,  but 
you  can  put  things  on  them.  Dick,  I  met  a  philosopher 
this  evening.  Oh!  but  a  tattered  philosopher." 

"From  what  I  can  judge,  you  seem  to  be  making  a 
habit  of  it,"  I  answered,  pouring  him  out  some  whisky. 
"Say  when." 

"Enough!"  he  told  me,  and  launched  into  his  tale. 
"A  transcendental  philosopher,  mon  vieux.  A  rogue 
who,  in  one  simple  phrase,  epitomised  the  great  problems 
of  life.  I  met  him  on  the  Embankment;  he  made  the 
usual  request  in  a  beautiful  Scots  voice.  It  was  so 
beautiftil  that  I  gave  him  sixpence.  '  I  suppose,'  says  I, 
4  that  you  will  spend  that  on  whisky.'  'Ay,  mon,  but 
you  're  mistaken,'  says  he.  '  Not  a'  the  saxpence.  I  '11 
just  be  spending  tuppence  on  bread.  Whusky  is  nigh 
wasted  on  an  empty  stomach.'  del,  what  wisdom! 
I  have  found  a  creed  by  which  to  guide  my  erring  life. 
No  more  shall  I  be  tempted  to  spend  all  my  sixpence  on 
whisky,  tuppence  shall  go  first  to  fill  my  belly.  Deny 
yourself  something  of  the  things  you  want  that  the 
remainder  may  be  the  better  enjoyed.  Be  a  Spartan 
this  minute  that  you  may  be  a  better  Sybarite  the 
next.  O  excellent  Scotsman!  O  wise  knave!  Dick, 
I  asked  him  up  to  my  rooms,  but  he  was  suspicious 
and  would  not  come.  Do  you  think  he  suspected  me, 
his  humble  follower,  of  the  impertinence  of  offering  him 
a  sermon?" 

"He   probably   suspected   you   of   being   drunk,"    I 


A  Lawyer's  Occupations  21 

answered.  "But  you  didn't  seriously  propose  bringing 
him  up  here?" 

"Not  here,"  he  assured  me,  stretching  himself  out  in 
an  arm-chair.  "I  respected  your  peculiar  prejudice. 
But  why  not  to  my  own  rooms?  He  would  have  amused 
me ;  he  had  the  cut  of  a  man  who  would  have  given  me  a 
good  half-hour.  But  he  refused  to  come;  yet  I  promised 
him  both  bread  and  whisky. " 

"Good  Lord,"  I  murmured,  "there  seems  no  limit 
to  your  madness." 

At  that  he  sat  up  like  a  man  who  has  a  pin  sticking 
into  him. 

"Madness!"  he  shouted,  waving  his  glass  of  whisky 
so  that  I  thought  he  would  empty  the  contents  into  the 
fire.  "Go  to  bed,  you  lump  of  convention;  lay  yourself 
down  and  fill  the  night  with  placid  snores;  pillow  your 
head  on  a  treatise  on  the  law  of  torts;  and  refrain  from 
speaking  to  your  betters.  Madness!  Thousand  devils, 
he  calls  me  mad  because  I  exhibit  some  slight  courtesy  to 
an  old,  drunken,  Scots  philosopher,  clad  like  a  mechanic, 
who  has  given  me  the  best  advice  that  I  have  had  for 
years.  Creature  of  no  perception,  my  spirit  is  at  rest — 
to-night.  I  will  spend  tuppence  of  my  life  upon  the  law, 
that  presently  I  may  the  better  enjoy  the  whisky  of  my 
desire.  Crude  worldling,  go  to  bed. " 

We  did  not  pursue  the  subject  further,  although  I  did 
not  go  to  bed,  for  he  suddenly  turned  to  some  other 
matter  and  discussed  it  with  enthusiasm.  However 
extravagant  it  may  seem,  I  honestly  believe  that  the 
chance  words  of  the  out-of-work  mechanic  had  given 
him  some  comfort ;  yet  I  am  equally  certain  that  he  had 
not  intended  to  express  himself  so  clearly.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  I  had  ever  heard  him,  even  indirectly, 
refer  to  the  chance  of  his  going  back  to  painting.  Whether 


22  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

these  words  of  his  caused  me  to  attach  significance  to 
things  that  might  otherwise  have  escaped  my  attention, 
I  do  not  know,  but  I  certainly  noticed  that  he  began  to  be 
careless  of  leaving  artist  material  knocking  about  his 
room,  and  that  he  no  longer  concealed  the  fact  that  he 
knew  something  of  the  business  of  the  painter.  Some- 
times I  would  disturb  him  making  rough  charcoal 
sketches  of  street  scenes  which  had  stuck  in  his  memory ; 
and  on  these  occasions  he  would  no  longer  throw  the  work 
down,  and  begin  a  conversation  on  some  other  topic, 
but  would,  as  often  as  not,  ask  my  opinion  of  the  drawing, 
and  then,  before  I  could  express  my  views,  condemn  the 
thing  himself .  "The  mark  of  the  beast  is  plain,  Dick," 
he  once  told  me.  "I  'm  a  damned  amateur — perhaps 
I  always  shall  be. " 

Yet  he  did  what  he  could  to  make  something  of  his 
profession,  and  used  to  their  full  extent  whatever  chances 
came  his  way.  When  he  got  his  first  brief,  the  usual 
unimportant  thing,  he  worked  it  up  as  if  it  had  been  of 
the  utmost  seriousness,  and  got  himself  into  such  a 
state  of  nervousness  over  the  business  that  I  was  afraid 
that  he  would  make  a  fool  of  himself.  His  manner  in 
court,  however,  was  perfectly  self-possessed,  and  he 
won  a  doubtful  case  rather  neatly.  That  night  he  insisted 
that  I  should  dine  with  him  at  the  Savoy,  where  he  spent 
three  times  what  the  brief  was  marked,  and  talked  an 
incredible  amount  of  nonsense  into  the  bargain.  "It  is 
a  pity,"  he  informed  me  as  we  left  the  table,  "that  no 
Lord  Chancellor  has,  so  far  as  I  know,  ever  been  an  artist. 
I  hate  setting  fashions. "  Yet,  before  we  got  back  to  the 
Temple  he  bet  me  five  pounds  that  he  would  never 
succeed  in  earning  a  hundred  a  year  at  the  Bar.  I  did 
not  take  him. 

Soon  after  our  first  New  Year's  Day  in  Brick  Court, 


A  Lawyer's  Occupations  23 

he  began  the  habit  of  entertaining  an  extraordinary 
assortment  of  odd  characters  on  Saturday  evenings. 
The  circumstance  brought  him  some  local  fame,  and 
many  men  went  to  his  rooms  on  these  occasions  to  see 
the  latest  curiosity  that  he  had  collected.  Any  one, 
provided  that  he  was  polite  to  the  rest  of  the  company 
and  did  not  give  himself  airs,  was  admitted;  yet  had 
Massingdale  imagined  that  many  of  his  guests  viewed 
the  others  as  a  manner  of  show,  there  would  have  been 
the  very  devil  to  pay,  and  the  rupture  of  several  acquaint- 
anceships. But  he  regarded  it  as  so  very  natural  a 
thing  for  a  man  to  entertain  any  one,  of  any  condition, 
who  happened  to  appeal  to  him  as  an  amusing  companion, 
that  he  could  not  imagine  that  others  would  take  a 
different  view.  Therefore,  he  offered  his  hospitality 
to  a  quaint  mixture  of  classes  and  conditions,  and  played 
the  host  to  a  heterogeneous  collection  of  guests  without 
noticing  the  peculiar  quality  of  the  gathering. 

When,  or  how,  he  managed  to  scrape  acquaintance 
with  many  of  the  persons  who  came  to  his  rooms,  I  do 
not  know;  it  has,  however,  always  seemed  to  me  that 
the  fact  of  his  getting  them  together,  and  of  setting 
them  at  their  ease,  is  no  small  tribute  to  his  character. 
Personally,  I  might  follow  in  his  footsteps  all  my  days, 
and  at  the  end  signally  fail  to  instil  an  appearance  of 
comfort  into  myself,  or  my  guests;  I  shall  not,  however, 
make  the  attempt. 

Some  of  his  disreputable  companions  I  could  not 
stand;  some  I  admired;  others  bored  me.  I  imagine 
that  to  all  of  them  I  appeared  what  I  was,  self-conscious 
and  unnatural.  There  was,  for  instance,  Ponterac,  the 
maitre  d'armes,  five  foot  six  of  rolling  r's  and  bombast, 
a  Gascon  of  the  stage.  I  could  not  stand  the  man,  and 
had  much  difficulty  in  maintaining  any  hold  on  polite- 


24  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

ness  when  he  talked  with  me;  his  fantastic  accounts  of  his 
father's  wealth  and  position  left  me  cold,  and  his  inane 
manner,  accompanied  by  much  twirling  of  the  moustache, 
of  explaining  his  own  importance,  made  me  angry.  Yet 
when  I  explained  this  to  Massingdale  he  would  only 
laugh  at  me.  "If,"  he  informed  me,  "you  knew  how  to 
hold  a  foil,  you  would  think  better  of  friend  Ponterac. 
He  fences  like  a  god,  Dick.  Much  can  be  forgiven  to 
genius;  and  with  a  sword  he  is  a  master.  Besides,  he  is 
really  a  very  good  fellow."  I  am  prepared  to  admit  his 
swordsmanship;  when  he  fences  I  admire  him;  my 
complaint  is  that  any  one  should  ever  want  to  know  him 
outside  the  Salle  d'Armes.  When  he  finished  his  visit 
to  London  and  went  back  to  Paris,  I  felt  that  my  good 
name  with  Massingdale  was  in  less  danger. 

But  there  were  others  with  whom  I  was  on  different 
terms,  whose  acquaintance  I  was  very  glad  to  have: 
Mrs.  George  Brown,  widow,  who  appeared  very  infre- 
quently, and  who  taught  singing  under  the  style  of 
Madame  Bombadier,  she  looked  on  life  with  so  much 
amusement,  despite  the  deadly  nature  of  her  occupation, 
that  a  conversation  with  her  put  one  in  the  best  of  tempers ; 
Josef  Armande  Letiche,  ancien  professeur  de  lycee,  now 
giving  lessons  in  French  and  Latin  at  clients'  houses,  a 
fierce  Royalist  with  an  excellent  taste  in  literature,  and 
one  of  the  mildest  old  gentlemen  who  ever  earned  a 
pittance;  James  Hopkins,  commercial  traveller,  who, 
once  he  got  over  the  desire  to  do  business  with  chance 
acquaintances,  was  an  amusing  specimen  of  his  tribe, 
and  was  admitted  to  Massingdale's  rooms  because  he  had 
once  knocked  down  a  carter  who  was  ill-treating  his 
horse.  He  must  have  been  singularly  bored  with  the 
nature  of  the  entertainment,  yet  he  came  regularly. 
There  were  struggling  artists  and  musicians,  who  came 


A  Lawyer's  Occupations  25 

and  went  and  brought  their  friends,  whose  business  was 
often  of  the  most  sordid  kind,  though  their  hopes  might 
have  been  high,  who  designed  small  advertisements  and 
played  in  the  lesser  orchestras.  Last,  yet  in  his  own 
estimation  first,  there  was  Hendick,  a  gentleman  and  a 
well-informed  man,  who  was  in  the  most  violent  stage 
of  newly  adopted  socialistic  proselytism.  Hendick  had 
a  fine  voice,  and  could  sing  good  songs  well;  at  times, 
moreover,  he  could  be  induced  to  forget  his  ideas  of 
social  reform;  but  a  chance  word  would  recall  him  to 
what,  I  imagine,  he  thought  his  duty,  and  the  room  would 
be  filled  with  clamour,  for  his  opponents,  led  by  Massing- 
dale,  never  shirked  the  battle.  In  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  Massingdale's  rooms,  Hendick  was  not  popular;  his 
voice  was  very  loud  and  harsh,  except  in  singing,  and 
carried  after  the  fashion  of  a  steam  siren,  so  that  in 
the  small  hours  of  morning  our  neighbours  were  often 
able  to  satisfy  themselves  as  to  his  exact  opinions.  I 
have  frequently  done  so  from  my  own  bed,  with  no 
satisfaction. 

These  peculiar  gatherings  once  established,  Massing- 
dale  seemed  to  find  extraordinary  pleasure  in  them, 
and  every  Saturday  night,  when  he  was  in  London, 
some  of  the  mixed  company  might  be  found  drinking 
and  smoking  and  engaging  in  every  possible  variety 
of  talk,  in  his  rooms;  as  a  concession  to  the  "absurd 
habits"  of  the  other  residents  in  the  inn,  the  host  dis- 
couraged musical  performances  after  one  in  the  morning. 
On  the  whole,  I  would  prefer  to  have  sacrificed  many 
things,  besides  an  occasional  hour  of  sleep,  rather  than  to 
have  missed  many  of  those  gatherings;  although  I  am 
altogether  incapable  of  organising,  or  of  desiring  to 
organise  such  meetings  on  my  own  account,  they  pleased 
me  when  I  was  a  guest.  More,  they  showed  me  Massing- 


26  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

dale  in  a  new  light,  which,  I  fancied,  was  worth  the  seeing. 
As  he  performed  his  duties,  providing  his  guests  with 
what  they  wanted  in  the  matter  of  refreshment  and, 
which  is  a  very  different  thing,  of  talk,  he  showed  as 
another  person  from  the  man  I  knew  at  Cambridge,  or 
from  the  man  who  worked  at  the  law;  it  was  impossible 
to  suppose  that  he  would  continue  the  absurd  business 
much  longer,  and  I  grew  interested  to  discover  when 
the  change  would  come,  when  he  would  go  back  to  old 
Loissel  and  an  easel. 

Yet  the  months  passed  and  no  upheaval  in  his  life 
occurred;  he  became  more  wrapped  up  in  the  strange 
society  which  he  frequented,  but  he  said  nothing  of 
giving  up  his  profession  of  barrister.  As  I  was  very 
busy  myself,  doing  all  I  could  to  make  good  the  chances 
that  had  come  my  way,  I  did  not  see  very  much  of  him 
at  this  time,  and  accompanied  him  not  more  than  once 
or  twice  into  the  queer  places  where  he  spent  his  evenings. 
His  constitution  must  have  been  of  iron,  for  he  often 
returned  at  one  or  two  in  the  morning,  after  spending 
many  hours  in  Soho  or  some  similar  locality,  and  then 
sat  down  to  work  that  had  to  be  ready  in  a  few  hours; 
yet  he  rose  early,  and  was  usually  smoking  an  after- 
breakfast  pipe  at  eight-thirty.  I  told  him  that  his  habits 
were  a  disgrace,  and  that  he  would  have  to  reform,  where- 
at he  laughed  at  me,  and  asked  what  was  wrong  with  his 
health;  but  I  fancy  he  was  not  sorry  when  the  Long 
Vacation  came  round  again.  As  soon  as  the  Courts 
closed  he  was  off  to  France,  where  he  spent  the  whole 
vacation,  "painting,"  he  wrote  to  me,  "with  some 
approach  to  seriousness. "  I  spent  a  fortnight  with  him 
at  Avignon,  and  together  we  tramped  much  of  the 
surrounding  country.  Whether  it  was  the  sun  of  the 
Midi,  or  whether  it  was  the  influence  of  the  foregoing 


A  Lawyer's  Occupations  27 

weeks  upon  him,  I  have  no  means  of  telling,  but  on  this 
occasion  he  told  me  definitely  that  he  would  give  up 
the  Bar  and  try  his  fortune  at  the  business  that  he  loved, 
yet  that  when  that  would  be  he  did  not  know. 

"I  spent  a  week  with  the  governor  at  Toulon,"  he 
told  me  one  day,  as  we  took  a  midday  siesta  in  the  garden 
of  a  country  inn.  "The  old  man  is  dead  against  the 
business;  refuses  all  supplies,  if  I  give  up  the  Bar.  A 
most  obdurate  parent,  Dick." 

Since  I  did  not  reply  to  this,  we  sat  silent,  staring 
at  the  valley  in  front  of  us,  and  at  the  white,  winding 
riband  of  the  road.  He  suddenly  returned  to  the  subject 
again,  but  without  his  usual  accompaniment  of  laughter, 
so  that  his  tone  disturbed  me  from  a  well-fed  reverie, 
and  fixed  my  attention  on  the  man  beside  me.  He  sat 
with  his  arms  on  the  wooden  table,  his  pipe  unlighted 
at  his  side,  and  there  was  something  in  his  voice,  and  in 
his  eyes  which  saw  nothing  of  the  scene  before  them, 
that  brought  me  the  sudden  consciousness  that  here  was 
no  spoilt  favourite  of  fortune,  baulked  of  one  of  his 
pleasures,  but  a  man  distressed  on  a  subject  that  went 
deeper  than  I  could  see. 

"It  is  simple  cowardice,"  said  he,  speaking,  it  seemed, 
half  to  himself.  "I  haven't  the  courage  to  face  it. 
I  've  always  had  money,  and  I  Ve  never  known  want. 
I  am  not  so  ignorant  of  what  the  life  means  as  to  imagine 
that  I  can  enter  into  the  precious  heritage  at  once ;  there 
would  be  years  of  poverty,  where  doubt  of  the  end  would 
make  the  burden  heavier,  before  I  could  hope  for  calm 
water;  there  is  the  certainty  that  I  should  be  a  poor 
man  all  my  life.  It  could  never  be  a  sort  of  golden 
vagabondage;  there  would  be  no  coming  back  to  the 
glass  and  silver,  when  the  coloured  table-cloth  and  the 
horn-handled  knives  seemed  mean  and  ugly.  Yet  to  be 


28  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

true  to  the  faith  one  holds,  to  go  the  way  of  the  instincts, 
to  tread  the  road,  however  rough  it  be,  that  shows  itself 
in  dreams!  Would  n't  any  sane  man  do  that?  Wouldn't 
anything  that  had  the  effrontery  to  hold  up  its  head 
among 'decent  beings  make  the  choice  at  once?  Dick, 
I  'm  a  damned  coward. " 

To  such  words  there  is  no  reply;  a  man  feeling  as 
Massingdale  did  must  act  alone,  and,  failing  to  act, 
suffer  what  I  think  he  suffered.  Others,  as  far  as  I  see 
things,  cannot  serve  him.  So  I  murmured  what  I  could, 
and  he,  being  the  last  person  to  afflict  others  with  his 
own  troubles,  resumed  his  normal  manner,  and  on  the 
tramp  back  to  Avignon  never  left  his  hold  of  laughing 
talk. 

But  the  thing  stuck  in  my  mind,  and  when  he  came 
back  to  Brick  Court  in  the  autumn,  I  had  to  check 
myself  for  fear  of  greeting  him  with  a  request  for  his 
decision.  However,  I  forwent  the  temptation  to  inter- 
fere in  matters  which  did  not  concern  me,  and  we  re- 
sumed the  same  existence  that  we  had  commenced  a 
year  before.  I  confess  that  I  was  somewhat  irritated 
by  the  want  of  movement  in  the  affair,  and  was,  for  a 
time,  inclined  to  style  Massingdale's  wish  to  become 
a  painter  as  a  passing  fancy,  a  thing  that  had  no  firm 
root.  I,  seeing  half  his  trouble,  fancied  that  I  saw  the 
whole,  and  was  ready  to  agree  with  his  own  definition 
of  the  thing  as  cowardly ;  since,  I  have  somewhat  altered 
my  opinion,  and  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
step  he  hesitated  so  long  in  making  was  one  which  no 
man,  viewing  the  thing  as  seriously  as  he  did,  could  take 
without  proper  consideration.  To  his  artist-mind  the 
chance  that  he  should  one  day  falter  in  the  business, 
having  embarked  upon  the  enterprise,  was  a  risk  that  he 
dared  not  undergo.  Had  he  set  out  upon  the  road  he 


A  Lawyer's  Occupations  29 

saw  in  dreams,  and  then  turned  back  because  the  way 
was  too  difficult,  I  imagine,  knowing  him  as  I  do,  that 
he  would  have  lost  the  worth  from  life.  He  waited  so 
long  because  he  wished  to  make  certain  that  there  should 
be  no  breakdown  farther  on. 

One  important  addition  was  made  to  the  Saturday 
evening  company  that  autumn:  Yvonne  Carrel  joined 
the  band.  I  had  seen  that  she  was  advertised  to  sing 
at  one  of  the  music  halls,  and  I  had  read  something  of  a 
quarrel  that  she  had  had  with  the  directors  of  the  Opera 
in  Paris,  but  I  did  not  expect  to  meet  her  in  Brick  Court. 
Massingdale  had  occasionally  spoken  about  her,  but  I 
had  no  idea  that  the  acquaintance  which  he  had  begun 
in  Loissel's  studio  had  ripened  into  such  intimate 
friendship.  I  met  her  first  in  his  rooms  one  Saturday 
night  in  early  November;  I  had  looked  in  about  midnight 
and  found  the  usual  crowd  assembled,  Hendick  being  in 
particularly  aggressive  mood.  The  place  was  so  thick 
with  smoke  that,  coming  from  out-of-doors,  I  could 
hardly  see;  I  sat  down  on  the  divan  near  the  door,  and, 
following  the  etiquette  which  ruled  strictly,  prepared 
to  converse  with  my  neighbour,  whoever  it  might  be. 
It  was  Yvonne  Carrel,  and  Massingdale  was  sprawling 
on  the  other  side  of  her. 

"I  did  n't  think  we  should  see  you  to-night,"  said  he; 
"I  heard  you  were  dining  in  polite  society.  Make  your- 
self agreeable  to  Yvonne,  while  I  go  and  get  drinks. " 

I  believe  the  name  of  Yvonne  is  not  the  most  uncom- 
mon in  France,  so  that  the  introduction  left  something 
to  be  desired,  but  I  had  seen  Mademoiselle  Carrel's 
photograph,  and  so  was  able  to  recognise  her.  Although 
she  was  thirty,  perhaps  older,  she  looked  much  younger ; 
was  not  in  any  way  made  up,  and  conveyed,  at  the  first 
glance,  that  impression  of  childhood  which,  through 


30  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

everything,  she  has  maintained.  She  was  very  dark 
and  slight  and  beautiful  after  a  wild  gipsy  fashion,  yet 
her  face  was  too  empty  of  everything  but  mere  beauty  of 
form  to  impress  her  attractions  on  the  mind.  When  she 
spoke,  more  especially  when  she  sang,  she  seemed  another 
woman. 

"You  are  Monsieur  Crutchley?"  she  asked,  begin- 
ning the  conversation,  as  soon  as  Massingdale  left  us. 
"Ah,  yes.  Louis  has  told  me  much  of  you.  You  will 
some  day  do  much  at  the  profession  of  avocat. " 

I  murmured  something  appropriate,  but  she  did  not 
seem  to  require  me  to  answer,  for  she  asked  a  question 
without  listening  to  what  I  said. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  me  sing?"  she  inquired,  with 
a  peculiar  directness. 

"Unfortunately,  I  have  not,"  I  answered. 

"Then,"  she  said  with  a  smile,  "I  will  sing  to  you, 
when  the  ardour  of  Monsieur — Hendick,  is  it  not? — 
is  less  strong.  People  should  hear  me  sing  before  they 
meet  me,  then  they  would  like  me  better.  I  cannot 
talk." 

So,  as  Massingdale  came  up  with  the  drinks,  she 
informed  him  that  she  was  going  to  sing,  and  he,  without 
a  word,  planted  them  on  the  floor,  and  went  over  to 
Hendick. 

"Silence,  madman!"  he  cried,  seizing  the  socialist 
prophet  by  the  shoulder.  "Mademoiselle  Carrel  is 
going  to  sing,  and  you,  unworthy  tub-thumper,  must 
play  for  her. " 

Upon  which  she  sang  to  us;  Hendick,  who  would 
assault  the  cherished  traditions  of  mankind  without 
a  tremor,  sweating  with  nervousness  as  he  played.  I 
do  not  know,  and  I  care  less,  what  the  song  she  sang  was 
called ;  it  was  some  French  ballad  of  which  Massingdale 


A  Lawyer's  Occupations  31 

had  the  music.  A  small  thing  of  no  particular  merit, 
yet  she  gave  it  to  us  as  I  imagine  the  composer  dreamed 
that  it  might  be  rendered,  as,  I  am  very  certain,  I  shall 
not  hear  it  sung  again.  Her  voice  was  not  large,  consider- 
ing her  place  in  her  profession,  it  had  no  amazing  compass, 
yet  it  could  express  any  emotion  which  she  had  ever  felt, 
and  she  was  not  without  emotions.  I  realised  that  what 
she  had  said  was  true;  when  people  had  heard  her  sing  it 
would  take  much  to  make  them  think  little  of  her. 
Hendick  spoke  no  more  of  socialism  that  evening. 

After  that  I  saw  a  certain  amount  of  Mademoiselle 
Carrel.  She  came  occasionally,  but  not  regularly, 
to  the  Saturday  evenings,  and  fairly  frequently  to 
Massingdale's  rooms  at  other  times,  to  lunch  or  tea; 
also,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  I  ran  across  her  having 
supper  with  Massingdale  at  one  of  the  quieter  restaurants. 
Considering  the  amount  of  gossip  of  which  she  was  the 
centre  during  her  autumn  season  in  London,  I  was 
interested  to  know  Massingdale's  opinion  of  her,  and 
one  day  tackled  him  on  the  subject. 

"I  gather,"  I  suggested,  as  we  sat  alone  in  my  rooms 
one  evening,  "that  you  could  correct  certain  of  the 
accounts,  and  supply  others. " 

"I  have  known  her  intimately  for  years,"  he  told 
me  quietly,  "  and  even  in  face  of  the  cross-examination  of 
a  rising  lawyer  I  shall  maintain  the  habit  of  those  years. " 

I  took  the  hint,  and  we  discussed  her  no  more.  He 
had  an  admirable  reserve  in  such  matters,  and,  as  he 
stated,  he  had  known  her  some  years,  yet,  until  she 
came  to  London,  had  done  no  more  than  make  an 
occasional  and  casual  allusion  to  their  acquaintance- 
ship. 

About  this  time  Massingdale  exhibited  a  painting  in 
an  autumn  exhibition  in  Paris,  a  picture  of  a  rock-strewn 


32  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

path  near  the  Bas  Breau  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau, 
and  it  entered  into  the  critics'  heads  to  say  complimentary 
things  of  it,  things  perfectly  justified,  yet  liable  to  do 
him  much  harm.  He  knew  that  the  picture  had  some 
merit,  and  he  was,  not  unnaturally,  glad  that  its  good 
points  were  recognised;  at  the  same  time  he  was  some- 
what taken  with  the  impossible  idea  of  combining  the 
two  professions  of  painting  and  of  law.  I  urged  that 
the  Bar  would  go  by  the  board;  that  solicitors  did  not 
want  artists  to  represent  their  clients;  that  he  would 
inevitably  fail  in  both  endeavours.  Loissel,  writing 
from  Paris,  put  the  matter  more  strongly ;  he  had  heard 
nothing  of  the  possible  compromise,  but  being  a  shrewd 
old  fellow,  and  knowing  the  difficulties  that  faced  Massing- 
dale,  he  anticipated  the  evil.  Massingdale  showed  me  the 
letter;  its  meaning  could  not  be  mistaken.  Loissel  called 
him  insense,  fou,  un  drole  de  petit  idiot;  he  denounced 
his  picture  in  the  exhibition  as  the  work  of  an  amateur 
who  had  not  yet  learned  how  to  paint;  he  foretold 
ignominious  failure,  a  pitiful  prostitution  of  talent,  if 
Massingdale  did  more  work  without  finishing  his  ap- 
prenticeship ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  letter  he  undid  all  the 
good  of  the  beginning.  "  Come  to  me,  come  back  to  me," 
he  wrote,  "and  I  will  make  you  a  painter.  A  little,  a 
very  little,  and  you  will  pass  the  Rubicon;  a  little  hard 
work,  and  then  I  can  teach  you  no  more. " 

Perhaps  one  cannot  blame  the  poor  devil  for  reading 
the  thing  wrongly;  he  was  ready  to  clutch  at  any  straw 
that  passed  him.  He  knew  himself  and  his  own  affairs 
as  well  as  an  outsider,  and  only  wished  to  avoid  a  total 
shipwreck.  If  a  man  is  going  to  fly  in  the  face  of  prudent 
advice,  gamble  his  life  upon  a  slender  chance,  and  em- 
brace poverty  where  he  has  hitherto  been  the  companion 
of  moderate  wealth,  he  cannot  be  blamed  because  he 


A  Lawyer's  Occupations  33 

seeks,  however  foolishly,  to  find  some  safer  way  before 
he  takes  his  plunge. 

In  any  case,  Loissel's  letter  did  what  the  writer 
intended  it  should  not,  and  helped  Massingdale  to  play 
with  his  compromise  more  fondly. 

"If  I  am  so  near  the  Rubicon,"  he  told  me,  when  he 
had  shown  me  the  letter,  "I  can  pass  it  by  myself.  I 
can  work  each  summer  in  Paris.  It  only  means  moving 
more  slowly.  Thunder  of  heaven,  man,  I  have  no  wish 
to  turn  out  pictures  by  the  dozens;  I  wish  to  learn  to 
paint  so  that  before  I  die  I  can  set  down  on  canvas 
some  of  the  things  I  see  and  feel. " 

"And  the  Bar?"  I  asked  him.  "Do  you  think  it 's 
going  to  make  your  fortune  while  you  spend  your  spare 
time  at  something  else?  Or  is  it  to  be  used  only  as 
security  for  your  allowance?" 

I  had  expected  an  outburst  of  anger,  and  for  a  moment 
I  made  sure  that  I  was  going  to  get  it;  but  after  a  short 
silence,  during  which  he  seemed  to  struggle  with  his 
feelings,  Massingdale  began  to  laugh  with  what  appeared 
to  be  genuine  amusement. 

"The  devil 's  in  the  wise  old  counsellor, "  he  announced, 
"the  devil,  or  the  spirit  of  wisdom,  or  both.  Yet  it 's 
truth  that  you  speak,  you  brutal  castigator  of  youth's 
blindness.  I  seem  to  be  becoming  knave  as  well  as  fool. 
Oh !  it 's  a  sorry  world  for  a  poor  young  gentleman.  I  '11 
have  to  go  all  over  the  thing  again. " 

And  with  that  he  left  me. 

We  did  not  speak  of  the  business  again  for  some  days ; 
and  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  he  would  have  made  up  his 
mind  and  said  good-bye  to  the  law  before  Christmas, 
had  not  a  woman  come  into  the  affair,  thrown  him,  poor 
hot-headed  fool,  clean  off  his  balance,  and  sent  him 
wandering  down  an  even  rougher  path. 

3 


CHAPTER   III 

A  MAIDEN  AND  THE  FOOL 

ONE  Saturday  night  in  December  I  came  back  to  my 
rooms  after  dinner  and  found  a  note  from  my 
cousin,  Tom  Onnington,  saying  that  he  had  been  round 
that  afternoon,  but  had  not  been  able  to  wait,  and  sug- 
gesting that  I  should  come  round  to  lunch  next  morning 
at  the  Berkeley,  where  he  was  stopping  with  his  people; 
he  also  suggested  that  he  might  look  in  again  that 
evening,  but  that  I  was  not  to  stop  in  on  that  account. 
I  had  not  seen  the  man  for  a  couple  of  years;  when  he 
had  been  in  England  I  had  missed  him,  and  I  was  very 
glad  to  hear  that  he  was  home.  Except  on  his  first 
voyage  as  a  midshipman,  he  had  not  served  in  home 
waters,  and  so  we  had  seen  very  little  of  each  other, 
although  he  generally  made  a  point  of  looking  me  up 
when  he  was  on  leave.  I  liked  the  man  very  much, 
and  was  delighted  to  hear  that  he  was  in  town;  I  also 
looked  forward  to  the  next  day's  lunch,  my  uncle, 
Vice-Admiral  Onnington,  and  his  wife  being  excellent 
company.  The  house  near  Cambridge  had  been  shut 
for  six  months,  as  the  family  had  been  abroad  all  the 
summer,  and  I  had  missed  going  down  to  them  for 
week-ends;  Elsingham  Hall  is  a  very  pleasant  place 
to  stop  at.  There  was  also  Joan  to  be  considered,  a 
maiden  whom  I  had  last  seen  with  her  hair  down,  and 

34 


A  Maiden  and  the  Fool  35 

who  had  just  finished  a  year  on  the  Continent;  she  had 
been  an  excellent  little  person  before  the  metamor- 
phosis, and  I  was  much  interested  to  find  out  how  much 
it  would  alter  her.  On  the  whole  count  I  promised 
myself  a  pleasant  Sunday. 

As  I  had  not  been  in  Massingdale's  rooms  on  a  Saturday 
evening  for  a  matter  of  some  weeks,  I  went  across  to 
him  that  night,  leaving  a  note  for  Tom,  telling  him  where 
I  might  be  found,  in  case  he  should  call.  The  place  was 
already  thick  with  smoke  when  I  arrived,  and  the  smell 
of  many  strange  drinks  was  heavy,  for  Massingdale  did 
what  he  could  to  satisfy  the  tastes  of  his  guests,  and  kept 
all  manner  of  odd  fluids  for  their  benefit;  yet  the  talk 
was  comparatively  quiet  as  the  company  had  not  yet 
warmed  to  their  work,  and  as  Hendick  was  fortunately 
engaged  in  the  discussion  of  art,  not  of  politics,  with 
old  Monsieur  Letiche  and  a  second-rate,  black-and-white 
artist,  whose  name  I  did  not  know.  Mr.  James  Hopkins, 
the  traveller  in  drapery,  had  just  made  his  appearance; 
he  was,  somewhat,  I  fancy,  to  Massingdale's  embarrass- 
ment, a  most  faithful  attendant.  He  was,  according  to 
his  own  account,  opening  his  mind  and  enlarging  his 
horizon,  a  business  which  sometimes  entailed  an  hour 
or  two  of  sleep.  On  this  occasion  he  had  not  eaten 
since  midday,  and  was,  when  I  came  in,  engaged  on  a 
search  for  plates  and  knives,  while  his  host  fried  eggs  for 
his  meal;  I  narrowly  missed  sitting  on  a  loaf  of  bread 
and  a  pot  of  jam,  which  he  had  already  got  out  on  the 
divan  near  the  fire.  When  the  eggs  were  ready,  and 
Hopkins  settled  to  his  food,  Massingdale  joined  with 
full  enthusiasm  in  the  discussion  that  was  afoot. 

"The  only  justification  of  art,"  announced  Hendick, 
planting  himself  before  the  fire,  a  glass  of  beer  in  one 
hand  and  a  long  clay  pipe  in  the  other,  "is  that  it  should 


36  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

have  a  definite  ethical  purpose;  if  it  teaches  nothing, 
it  becomes  useless. " 

"Sacred  Goddess  of  Beauty!"  shouted  Massingdale, 
waving  the  frying-pan  which  he  was  engaged  in  scraping; 
"the  thing's  a  blasphemy.  The  artist  is  not  a  moral 
preacher,  he  is  solely  concerned  with  turning  out  work 
that  conforms  to  his  standard  of  beauty." 

"The  art  for  art's  sake  business,"  retorted  Hendick, 
scenting  battle.  "I  thought  that  idea  was  definitely 
exploded.  The  good  of  humanity ' ' 

"Surely,"  interrupted  Letiche,  in  his  polite,  rather 
weary  voice,  "the  good  of  humanity  is  served,  Monsieur 
Hendick,  if  the  standard  of  beauty  is  faithfully  in  view?" 

"No,  certainly  not,"  asserted  Hendick,  enjoying 
himself  hugely.  "What  right  has  any  one  to  maintain 
that  the  ideal  of  some  emotional  individual  must  be  of 
service  to  mankind?" 

"Yet,"  argued  Massingdale,  beginning  to  pace  the 
room,  as  he  would  when  roused,  the  frying-pan  still 
firmly  grasped,  "it  is,  despite  your  fool  theories,  through 
individual  effort  that  we  move  on.  One  man  is  stronger, 
more  enthusiastic,  less  muddled,  perhaps  more  cruel, 
than  his  neighbours;  he  succeeds,  and  after  his  success 
the  herd  come  rushing  to  copy  his  acts.  In  art,  in  all 
things,  this  holds  good;  there  is  no  fixed  standard;  the 
artist  must  follow  where  his  fancy  takes  him. " 

Before  Hendick  could  get  out  his  reply,  the  black- 
and-white  artist  had  taken  up  the  tale. 

"You  're  right,  Massingdale,"  he  proclaimed  eagerly. 
"It  is  absurd  to  expect  a  man,  no  matter  what  branch 
of  art  he  works  at,  to  be  a  sort  of  confounded  mirror  of 
the  morals  of  the  moment.  He  is  only  concerned  with 
expressing  his  own  ideas. " 

"If  he  tried  to  teach  some  obvious  lesson,  he  would 


A  Maiden  and  the  Fool  37 

likely  make  a  beautiful  thing  ugly  to  half  the  world," 
I  hazarded,  sitting  forward  on  the  divan  as  the  discussion 
promised  some  interest. 

Hopkins,  who  was  usually  silent  on  these  occasions, 
seemed  to  be  suddenly  inspired;  he  crammed  half  an 
egg  into  his  mouth,  followed  it  with  a  large  piece  of 
bread,  and  began  speaking  in  a  muffled  voice. 

"I  don't  rightly  follow,"  said  he,  "all  that  you  gentle- 
men 'ave  been  saying.  I  ain't  no  artist  myself,  could  n't 
draw  nor  yet  play  the  piano  for  old  boots,  but  what  I 
do  maintain,  an'  always  'ave  done,  is  that  this  art  should 
be  something  that  a  feller  can  git  'old  of.  What  's  'e  for 
if  it  ain't  to  amuse  the  public?  If  'e  don't  write  music 
with  a  tune  that  a  man  can  remember,  an'  if  'e  don't 
paint  pictures  that  'ave  some  interest  in  'em,  a  story  or 
something,  'e  ain't  no  artist.  That  's  my  view. " 

Hopkins,  at  least,  had  the  satisfaction  of  attracting 
attention  by  the  expression  of  his  views;  there  was  a 
perfect  shout  of  derision  at  the  nature  of  his  ideal. 
Hendick,  bellowing  above  the  others,  maintained  that 
there  was  a  truth  at  the  bottom  of  it ;  Monsieur  Letiche 
groaned  at  the  heresy;  and  Massingdale  paced  the  room 
furiously,  waiting  a  chance  to  make  himself  heard. 

In  the  middle  of  all  the  noise,  which  must  have  been 
alarming:  to  any  stranger,  the  door  opened  and  a  man 
and  a  girl  appeared,  halting  in  evident  surprise  at  the 
sight  the  room  offered  them.  I  decided  that  Tom  and 
Joan,  who  were  the  visitors,  could  scarcely  have  hit 
upon  a  more  characteristic  scene  in  which  to  make 
Massingdale's  acquaintance,  but  I  did  not  know  why 
the  girl  should  have  put  in  an  appearance.  And  I  went 
across  and  greeted  them,  being  extremely  thankful  that 
it  was  not  the  habit  of  the  company  to  pay  attention 
to  new  arrivals. 


38  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"Good  Lord,  man,"  said  Tom,  shaking  me  by  the 
hand,  "what  on  earth  is  this?"  Then  turning  to  Joan: 
"It  seems  we've  struck  a  secret  meeting  or  something. 
The  man  on  the  hearth-rug  is  an  anarchist  for  a  certainty; 
he  's  got  good  lungs,  however.  It 's  no  place  for  you,  my 
child." 

"  Dick, "  exclaimed  Joan,  ignoring  her  brother's  advice, 
"you  must  be  leading  an  awful  life.  But  may  I  come 
in?  It  looks  awfully  amusing. " 

"  Certainly  not, "  answered  Tom;  and  in  a  lower  voice : 
"Here  is  the  pedestrian  with  the  frying-pan  coming  to 
speak  to  us." 

Massingdale,  who  at  first  had  taken  as  little  notice  of 
the  newcomers  as  the  others  had  done,  seeing  me  in  con- 
versation by  the  door,  came  up.  At  sight  of  my  two 
cousins'  fashionable  apparel  he  seemed  somewhat  aston- 
ished, but,  without  the  least  show  of  embarrassment,  put 
down  the  frying-pan,  and  asked  me  to  introduce  him. 

"I  am  afraid  you  must  be  rather  astonished  at  our 
volubility,"  said  he,  shaking  hands  with  Joan,  "but 
there  is  a  point  under  discussion  which  interests  us. 
The  atmosphere  is  bad,  I  grant  you,  but  we  can  open 
the  windows;  and  if  you  would  care  to  come  in  you 
might  be  rather  amused. " 

"I  should  love  to,  Mr.  Massingdale,"  answered  Joan, 
taking  no  notice  of  the  signs  which  Tom  and  I  made 
to  induce  her  to  refuse.  "I  hope  we  shall  not  interrupt 
the  discussion." 

And  without  more  parley  she  moved  into  the  room, 
Massingdale  at  her  side.  Tom  and  I  followed,  shutting 
the  door  behind  us. 

"  Is  it  all  right?"  he  whispered  to  me,  seeming  amused. 
"They  won't  get  blind  drunk  before  we  can  get  out? 
The  place  looks  like  a  confounded  drinking  shop. " 


A  Maiden  and  the  Fool  39 

I  assured  him  that  every  one  would  be  on  his  best 
behaviour,  and  we  joined  the  group  by  the  fire. 

The  entrance  of  a  pair  of  strangers  in  full  evening 
dress  had  the  effect  of  settling  the  discussion  on  the 
justification  of  art  with  some  abruptness,  but  the  com- 
pany, with  the  exception  of  Hopkins,  showed  no  signs 
of  discomfort.  He,  poor  man,  was  mightily  upset;  he 
swept  together  the  remnants  of  his  meal,  and  with  a 
beer  bottle  protruding  from  one  pocket,  and  his  hands 
full  with  a  couple  of  plates,  a  loaf,  and  the  jam-pot,  he 
retired  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  where  he  stealth- 
ily concluded  his  repast  when  he  imagined  that  Joan  was 
not  looking  at  him.  I  was  sorry  for  him,  but  I  like  to 
think  that  he  satisfied  his  hunger  all  the  same. 

Joan  seemed  taken  with  the  idea  of  making  a  good 
impression;  she  was  gracious  to  Hendick,  and  friendly 
with  Monsieur  Letiche,  and  she  smiled  at  the  "black- 
and-white"  man,  who  with  a  "first  violin,"  then  out  of 
employment,  hovered  in  the  background.  Poor  Hop- 
kins gave  her  no  chance  of  including  him  in  her  greeting. 
Tom,  since  he  found  himself  there,  took  the  thing  as  he 
found  it,  and  got  the  violinist  to  help  him  to  find  a 
drink.  I  rather  fancy  that  I  was  more  ill  at  ease  than 
any  of  the  others;  I  had  a  perfectly  reasonless  fear  that 
some  one  would  do  something,  or  more  probably  say  it, 
which  would  make  things  difficult.  I  made  the  mistake 
of  thinking  that  I  knew  the  company.  Yet  I  had  not 
realised  that  their  sense  of  fitting  conversation  was  as 
good,  or  better,  than  mine,  that  there  was  not  a  man 
present,  Hopkins  being  silent,  who  had  any  reason  to  be 
embarrassed,  or  to  keep  a  guard  upon  his  tongue. 

Massingdale  himself  was  certainly  the  figure  that 
would  attract  the  most  of  a  stranger's  attention;  there 
was  something  in  the  man  that  made  people  take  notice 


40  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

of  him  in  the  middle  of  a  crowd.  His  clothes  might  have 
aroused  attention,  but  they  would  not  have  held  it; 
being  at  his  ease,  he  wore  a  flowing  dressing-gown  of 
flowery  pattern,  he  had  on  a  soft  collar,  and  a  tie  fastened 
in  a  bow,  and  his  slippers  might  have  been  cut  from  the 
parlour  carpet  of  a  workman's  villa.  Yet  the  man  him- 
self made  one  think  little  of  his  apparel;  in  whatever 
garments  he  chose  to  appear  he  created  the  same  im- 
pression; he  had  a  manner  of  being  completely  absorbed 
in  the  business  of  the  moment  and  of  seeming  mighty 
interested  at  any  turn  of  events.  Had  a  duke  and  his 
duchess  suddenly  arrived  to  pay  him  a  visit,  he  would, 
I  am  convinced,  have  expressed  his  pleasure  at  seeing 
them,  and  would  have  treated  their  inclusion  in  the 
gathering  as  an  event  which  called  for  no  possible  com- 
ment; moreover,  he  would  have  been  much  annoyed 
if  the  other  guests  had  interrupted  their  enjoyment  on 
account  of  the  new  arrivals. 

So,  when  Tom  and  Joan  had  settled  themselves,  he 
began  to  work  up  the  talk  again  to  some  show  of  anima- 
tion, and — such  a  thing,  I  believe,  he  could  always  do 
when  he  wished  it — set  everybody  at  their  ease.  Seeing 
Tom  somewhat  interested  in  the  personality  of  Hendick, 
he  involved  the  couple  in  a  fiery  discussion  on  increasing 
armaments;  launched  Monsieur  Letiche,  the  violinist, 
and  the  "black-and-white"  man  on  the  resumed  dis- 
cussion of  the  purpose  of  the  artist;  failed  to  make 
Hopkins  do  anything  but  listen;  and  finally  came  and 
sat  with  Joan  and  me  upon  the  divan  by  the  fire. 

Since  he  did  not  dance,  and  only  went  to  the  enter- 
tainments of  polite  society  when  he  could  not  avoid  it 
without  offence,  and  since  he  was  a  very  loquacious 
person,  Massingdale  had  not  any  tricks  of  small  talk, 
and  carried  on  any  conversation  in  which  he  was  engaged 


A  Maiden  and  the  Fool  41 

with  far  more  eagerness  than  is  usual.  To  any  one  not 
afraid  of  original  talk  he  brought  much  diversion;  I 
imagined,  and  I  was  not  wrong,  that  he  would  succeed 
in  amusing  Joan. 

"Don't  you  think,  Miss  Onnington,"  he  asked,  as 
he  sat  down,  "that  this  is  a  very  excellent  arrangement 
for  a  room?" 

"It  is  rather  original,"  she  answered;  "but  you  have 
cleared  the  chairs  out,  have  n't  you?" 

At  that  he  broke  out  in  the  best  Massingdale  manner. 

"This  to  me!"  he  cried,  with  an  air  of  bitterness. 
"Chairs!  What  need  have  I  of  chairs?  Things  that 
always  stand  out  and  get  in  a  man's  way  when  he  wants 
to  walk  about.  You  laugh.  You  have  probably  been 
born  and  bred  among  chairs,  and  know  no  better.  If 
they  stand  round  the  walls,  which  is  the  only  place  for 
them,  my  arrangement  is  far  better;  if  they  are  placed 
without  cause  or  reason  about  the  room,  a  man  must 
be  for  always  thinking  of  them  or  he  damages  his  shins 
in  a  moment  of  deeper  thought." 

"But  don't  you  ever  want  to  sit  in  front  of  the  fire, 
Mr.  Massingdale?"  Joan  asked  him. 

"I  do,"  said  he,  solemnly;  "but  sitting  in  front  of 
the  fire  in  an  arm-chair  involves  having  a  table,  a  small 
table,  at  your  side,  to  hold  a  light  and  books;  and  a 
small  table  is  worse  than  a  chair;  a  man  is  become  a 
slave  to  his  furniture  when  he  has  such  things.  I  sacri- 
fice a  little  comfort  to  gain  a  greater  freedom. " 

"Oh,"  answered  Joan;  she  was  clearly  delighted  with 
Massingdale's  drivel.  "But  I  see  you  have  two  arm- 
chairs, though  I  can't  see  any  little  tables." 

"Those,"  he  informed  her,  assuming  the  air  of  a  man 
who  is  unjustly  suspected,  "are  the  evidences  of  true 
hospitality.  I  was  faced  with  a  choice:  to  encumber 


42  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

my  promenade  with  heavy  pieces  of  furniture,  or  to 
forego  the  chance  of  entertaining  my  friends.  You  have 
my  decision  before  you. " 

As  my  assistance  in  the  conversation  did  not  seem 
required,  I  sat  back  on  the  divan  and  employed  myself 
in  reckoning  up  the  recent  changes  in  Miss  Joan  Onning- 
ton.    She  was,  I  decided,  very  much  improved  in  appear- 
ance, and  had  a  style  of  good  looks  which  promised  to 
weather  the  years  well.     She  was  slight,  and  had  an 
excellent  figure;  she  carried  her  head  as  if  she  were  proud 
of  it;  and  she  knew  how  to  move.    Her  manners  were 
more  assured  than  when  I  had  last  seen  her,  yet  she 
appeared  to  have  lost  nothing  of  her  naturalness;  she 
disguised,  even  if  she  attempted,  any  obvious  effort  to 
hold  fast  a  man's  attention.     Her  hair  was  certainly 
without  reproach,  of  a  dark  brown  colour  with  many 
rich,  warm  tints  in  it,  and  very  fine,  hair  that  an  artist 
would  wish  to  paint;  since  she  had  done  it  up,  it  showed 
to  a  greater  advantage,  setting  a  broader  crown  upon  her 
face.    Her  eyes  were  of  the  colour  of  her  hair,  long-lashed 
and  wide;  her  features  were  fine  cut  and  well  modelled; 
her  mouth  was  small,  and  her  lips  very  red.     She  had  an 
air  of  freshness  and  of  health  about  her,  and  her  skin 
was  very  smooth  and  fair.     I  imagine  that  when  she 
looked  in  her  glass,  which,  I  suppose,  she  did  as  often  as 
most  women,  she  was  well  content;  if  she  were  not,  she 
set  herself  a  standard  very  much  above  the  average  of 
good-looking  women.    As  she  sat  beside  Massingdale  in 
that  rather  dim  and  very  smoky  atmosphere,  I  was 
inclined  to  foretell  that  she  would  come  to  real  beauty, 
a  thing  much  spoken  of,  yet  so  rare  that  one  does  not 
meet  it  more  than  once  or  twice  in  a  decade;  she  had, 
before  she  was  nineteen,  the  makings  of  it,  but  the  real 
quality  was  not  yet  there.    She  had,  already,  the  signs  of 


A  Maiden  and  the  Fool  43 

character;  her  face  was  neither  weak  nor  wanting  in 
expression,  but  she  flew  the  flag  of  life's  apprenticeship, 
and  the  marks  of  deeper  feelings,  of  high  passions,  of 
a  warm  and  kindly  sympathy,  without  which  no  real 
beauty  can  ever  be,  were  not  yet  come.  She  was  a 
child  with  little  knowledge  and  less  experience;  but  the 
years  ahead  would  bring  a  plenitude  of  both,  and  I  had 
a  fancy  that  she  would  use  what  came  to  hand  to  some 
advantage. 

My  estimation  of  her  character  was,  for  the  time, 
checked  by  her  asking  me  a  question. 

"Mr.   Massingdale  is  a  barrister,  isn't  he,   Dick?" 

"A  barrister?  Yes,  certainly,"  I  answered,  somewhat 
startled  at  the  inquiry.  "Why  do  you  ask?  " 

"Because  he  keeps  on  talking  about  'these  lawyer 
men '  as  if  he  were  an  outsider  studying  a  strange  people ; 
and  if  I  asked  him  myself  he  would  probably  evade  the 
question. " 

"This,"  said  Massingdale,  "is  the  reward  of  lucid 
conversation.  I  am  suspected  of  evading  the  truth,  a 
truth  so  patent  that  it  cannot  be  hid.  Surely,  Miss 
Onnington,  you  can  perceive  the  stamp  of  the  counsel 
on  me?" 

"I  don't  know  many  barristers,"  pleaded  Joan;  "but 
you  are  not  very  much  like  Dick,  are  you?  " 

"I  am  not,"  he  affirmed.  "I  am  very  unlike  him; 
and  therein  lies  a  compliment  for  one  of  us.  But  a 
barrister  I  am,  and  one,  moreover,  who  has  pleaded  at 
the  Bar,  sometimes  with  inconspicuous  success;  that 
is  my  titular  occupation,  but  I  am  many  other  things 
besides,  chief  amongst  them,  I  think,  being  a  fool. " 

Before  Joan  could  reply  to  this,  Tom  came  up  and 
interrupted  us. 

"Young  woman, "  he  asked  her,  "are  you  aware  of  the 


44  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

time?  It  will  probably  strike  midnight  before  I  have 
finished  this  sentence. " 

Joan  sprang  up  with  a  gasp. 

"Not  really,  Tom!"  she  cried,  but  a  neighbouring 
clock  began  to  prove  the  statement  true.  "What  will 
mother  say?  We  promised  to  be  back  in  an  hour,  at 
the  most." 

"The  police  are  probably  aware  of  the  fact  by  now," 
Tom  declared;  "and  the  governor  is  very  likely  shinning 
round  London.  We  '11  get  in  by  a  back  way,  go  up  to 
our  rooms  with  stealth,  and  announce  that  we  have  been 
in  bed  for  hours. " 

As  Massingdale  and  I  saw  them  down  the  stairs, 
which  take  some  knowing,  Joan  asked  him  to  tea  the 
next  day. 

"You  will  have  to  assure  my  mother  that  it  was  your 
fault  that  we  stayed  so  long,"  she  declared. 

"I  will  swear  that  I  stood  with  my  back  to  the  door 
and  threatened  you  with  a  frying-pan,"  he  promised 
her. 

When  we  were  half-way  up  the  stairs  on  our  way  back, 
he  halted,  and  addressed  me  with  reproach. 

"  I  take  it  as  unneighbourly  of  you,  Gossip  Crutchley, " 
he  announced,  "that  you  are  so  secretive  in  the  matter 
of  your  relations.  I  wonder  how  the  sailor  hit  it  off 
with  Citizen  Hendick." 

Personally,  I  was  tempted  to  suggest  that  the  couple 
probably  had  an  equal  contempt  for  each  other,  but 
I  did  not  go  back  to  enquire  of  Hendick.  Judging  by 
the  fact  that  I  was  twice  disturbed  in  my  sleep  by  bursts 
of  applause  coming  from  Massingdale's  rooms,  and  that 
I  heard  the  company  depart,  not  quietly,  some  time  after 
three  o'clock,  I  gathered  that  the  evening  had  been 
pleasantly  passed. 


A  Maiden  and  the  Fool  45 

The  following  afternoon  Massingdale  established  him- 
self in  the  good  graces  of  my  aunt  and  uncle.  Captain 
Massingdale  and  the  latter  had  served  together  on  more 
than  one  commission,  and  were,  it  appeared,  on  the  best 
of  terms.  In  fact,  the  Admiral  proclaimed  that  he  had  a 
score  against  me  because  I  had  not  brought  young 
Massingdale  to  see  him  before ;  which,  I  maintained,  was 
most  unjust,  since  I  had  not  had  the  opportunity  of 
doing  so  for  the  past  year.  Meanwhile  Massingdale 
kept  faithfully  and  exactly  to  his  promise. 

"Brandishing  a  frying-pan,"  I  heard  him  explain 
to  Mrs.  Onnington,  "I  was  an  object  that  would  strike 
terror  into  the  heart  of  any  maiden;  and  your  son,  al- 
though displaying  desperate  bravery,  was  unable  to 
drive  me  from  a  superior  strategic  position.  When 
exhausted  by  his  heroic  efforts,  he  was  forced  to  capitu- 
late and  grant  my  terms." 

"You  don't  say  what  was  happening  to  Dick  during 
this  terrible  encounter,  Mr.  Massingdale?"  asked  my 
aunt. 

"He  had  started,"  replied  Massingdale  promptly, 
"by  imploring  me  in  the  sacred  name  of  hospitality 
to  desist  from  my  brutal  attack,  but  I  knocked  him 
senseless  with  one  swift  blow  of  my  murderous  imple- 
ment. And  that  's  a  fact,  ladies  and  gentlemen. " 

"I  can  see,  my  boy,"  my  uncle  interposed,  patting 
Massingdale  on  the  shoulder,  "that  we  mustn't  let 
Joan  visit  such  dangerous  places  in  future.  You  will 
have  to  come  and  see  us.  But  you  're  very  like  your 
father.  A  bit  more  talkative,  however!" 

"Don't!"  laughed  Massingdale.  "You  take  away 
one  of  my  cherished  beliefs,  Admiral  Onnington.  I 
had  always  blamed  it  to  heredity. " 

"It  is  really  very  odd,"  my  uncle  continued.     "I* 


46  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

have  heard  a  lot  about  you  from  your  father,  but  I  had 
not  the  faintest  notion  that  you  knew  Dick.  Let  me 
see,  you  ran  wild  in  Paris  for  a  bit,  did  n't  you,  and 
wanted  to  become  an  artist?" 

Massingdale  looked  across  at  me  with  an  expression 
of  much  amusement;  he  wished,  I  fancy,  to  call  my 
attention  to  the  suggestion  that  his  ambitions  as  a 
painter  were  things  of  the  past. 

"The  indiscretion  of  my  parent,"  said  he,  in  reply 
to  Admiral  Onnington,  "has  stopped  at  that,  I  hope. 
It  is  true  that  I  have  thought  a  good  deal  about  painting." 

"Is  that  why  you  talk  about  the  'lawyer  men'  as 
if  you  were  not  one  of  them?"  asked  Joan,  eagerly. 

But  he  was  saved  the  difficulty  of  a  reply  by  Tom 
presenting  him  with  a  piece  of  the  hotel  notepaper. 

' '  Show  us  your  paces ,  Massingdale, ' '  he  asked.  ' '  Draw 
me  a  caricature  of  your  socialist  pal.  I  dare  n't  meet 
the  man  again  for  fear  of  hitting  him,  but  I  want  to 
remember  his  face." 

I  would  have  given  fairly  long  odds  on  Massingdale 
politely  refusing;  I  had  never  previously  seen  him 
attempt  to  exhibit  his  talent,  or  even  to  refer  to  it,  before 
strangers.  But  he  did  not  seem  to  hesitate;  he  only 
refused  the  notepaper. 

"I  don't  like  your  material,"  said  he,  producing  a 
small  sketching  book  from  his  breast-pocket.  And  he 
got  to  work. 

As  he  drew,  there  came  a  complete  change  on  the 
man.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  others  noticed  it; 
I  fancy  Joan  did,  for  her  eyes  did  not  leave  him,  but 
to  me  it  was  very  apparent.  He  was  absolutely  absorbed 
in  his  occupation,  so  that  some  one  might  have  had  a 
fit  alongside  of  him  and  he  would  not  have  noticed  it; 
he  gave  an  impression  of  capability,  as  of  a  man  engaged 


A  Maiden  and  the  Fool  47 

with  something  that  he  understood;  he  held  his  pencil 
as  if  he  were  sure  of  its  obedience.  I  do  not  remember 
to  have  been  so  impressed  by  the  working  Massingdale 
before,  and  I  had  a  sudden  fancy  to  tell  him  to  pack  up 
and  go  off  to  Paris  by  the  night  express.  He  worked 
with  great  quickness,  and  at  the  end  of  four  or  five 
minutes  sat  back  and  looked  at  what  he  had  done. 

"There,"  said  he,  throwing  the  book  to  Tom,  "that 
is  the  best  that  I  can  do. " 

Tom  stared  at  the  drawing  for  a  moment  with  an 
air  of  considerable  surprise. 

"This  is  not  a  caricature,"  he  cried,  still  holding  the 
thing  in  front  of  him,  "this  is  a  portrait.  My  lord,  man, 
that  is  the  fellow  himself.  I  would  n't  have  asked  you 
if  I  had  thought  you  were  a  professional  at  the  thing." 

So  the  portrait  was  handed  round,  and  we  duly 
admired  it,  and  said  what  occurred  to  us  to  say,  except 
Joan.  Beyond  a  doubt  the  thing,  which  now  hangs 
in  the  library  at  Elsingham  Hall,  is  good;  it  is  Hendick 
as  he  then  was,  Hendick  in  an  aggressive  mood  arguing 
on  politics.  It  is  a  rough  sketch  in  outline,  an  affair  of 
a  few  lines,  but  you  can  almost  hear  the  subject  shouting 
his  preposterous  theories  of  state  control;  the  head  is 
thrust  forward,  the  eyes  are  fierce,  as  Hendick's  are  in 
argument,  a  lock  of  hair  is  displaced  across  the  forehead, 
and  the  tie  is  awry.  The  man  who  could  so  animate  a 
drawing,  making  it  the  counterfeit  of  the  live  being, 
has  no  business  to  be  a  pleader  at  the  Bar;  his  business 
is  with  brushes  and  an  easel. 

Beyond  stating  that  the  thing  was  a  mass  of  technical 
crudities,  Massingdale  said  nothing  about  his  work. 
Having  done  the  drawing,  he  seemed  to  me  to  repent 
of  it,  and  to  be  endeavouring  to  hide  a  mood  of  some 
bitterness.  He  had  acted  on  a  moment's  inspiration, 


48  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

and  it  had  brought  to  his  mind  questions  which  he 
had  for  the  time  forgotten. 

While  Tom  and  I  were  explaining  to  my  uncle  and 
aunt  the  merits  of  the  portrait,  I  heard  Massingdale 
ask  Joan  for  her  opinion. 

"You  have  not,"  said  he,  in  his  ordinary  manner, 
"expressed  an  opinion  of  the  greatness  of  my  genius." 

"I  think,  Mr.  Massingdale,"  she  answered,  and  she 
seemed  mighty  serious  about  the  matter,  "that  you 
are  very  foolish,  and  that  you  are  wasting  your  time." 

"And  I,"  he  replied,  "am  absolutely  certain  of  it." 
And  changed  the  conversation.  After  which  he  took 
his  departure  with  all  the  speed  that  politeness  allowed. 

"Mr.  Massingdale  seems  very  funny  about  his  draw- 
ing," said  my  aunt,  when  he  had  gone.  "He  seemed 
quite  upset  at  something." 

"I  fancy  he  takes  it  rather  seriously,"  I  answered. 

"He  would  be  a  fool,  if  he  did  n't,"  Tom  assured  us. 

"He  probably  knows  a  great  deal  better  than  you  or 
I,"  suggested  the  Admiral,  "the  difference  between  what 
talent  he  has  got  and  what  is  required  of  a  professional 
artist."  Whereat  we  let  the  subject  drop. 

I  looked  in  at  Massingdale's  rooms  that  night  after 
dinner,  but  he  was  not  in.  The  following  morning  I 
had  to  catch  an  early  train  in  order  to  get  down  to 
Portsmouth  for  a  case  on  circuit;  as  I  hurried  down 
the  staircase  at  about  half -past  eight,  I  met  Massingdale 
coming  up,  showing  complete  evidence  of  not  having 
been  to  bed. 

"Been  on  the  tiles,  I  see,"  I  called  to  him,  without 
stopping. 

"Tiles  be  damned!"  he  shouted,  cheerfully.  "I  never 
got  up  so  far;  I  couldn't  get  away  from  the  prosaic 
pavement." 


A  Maiden  and  the  Fool  49 

It  was  abominably  cold,  and  as  I  sat  in  a  badly 
heated  railway  carriage  I  speculated  on  the  advantages 
of  possessing  a  temperament  such  as  Massingdale's ; 
its  chief  value  seemed  to  be  that  it  obviated,  on  occasions, 
the  horrible  process  of  getting  up  in  the  cold  and  dark. 
The  alternative  of  walking  about  all  night  did  not, 
however,  attract  me,  and  I  turned  to  my  papers  wondering 
what  on  earth  had  gone  wrong  with  the  man  the  after- 
noon before. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   SETTLEMENT  OF  A   QUESTION,  AND  THE  AMENITIES 
OF  THE   DINNER  TABLE 

MASSINGDALE  spent  that"  Christmas  at  Elsingham 
Hall;  his  father  was  still  on  the  Mediterranean 
station,  and  their  house  in  Dorsetshire  was  shut  up,  so 
that  he  accepted  my  aunt's  invitation  very  gladly. 
"Having  been  faced  with  the  choice  of  a  dinner  in  some 
London  restaurant,  which  promises  little,"  he  explained 
to  me,  when  the  letter  came,  "  or  of  accepting  the  decorous 
hospitality  of  my  reverend  cousin  Coke,  which  promises 
a  very  great  deal,  I  should  have  denied  myself  the 
greater  promise. " 

He  and  I  arrived  at  Elsingham  on  Christmas  Eve 
with  the  weather  looking  like  snow,  and  as  we  drove 
from  the  station  he  promised  to  go  to  church  next  day, 
a  thing  I  had  never  known  him  to  do  of  his  own  will  before, 
and  to  put  a  sovereign  in  the  plate,  "if  the  gods  send 
that  the  country  is  white  to-morrow."  The  gods  did 
send  snow;  and  as  we  sat  in  church  listening  to  the  vicar's 
appropriate  treatment  of  the  occasion,  Massingdale, 
who  had  been  ill  at  ease  during  most  of  the  service, 
informed  me  that  after  lunch  he  intended  to  build  a 
snow-man,  "the  devil  of  a  fine  chap,  with  a  real  top-hat 
on  his  head,"  and  thereafter  sat  smiling  to  himself  until 
the  good  parson  had  finished.  The  snow-man,  as  con- 
structed by  the  party  under  Massingdale's  direction, 

50 


Settlement  of  a  Question  51 

was  a  most  imposing  figure,  and  remained  crowned 
with  his  fashionable  hat  until  we  had  taken  our  departure. 

The  country  of  this  part  of  Cambridgeshire  has  a 
pleasant  quality  of  its  own;  it  is  as  different  from  the 
valley  of  the  Cam  as  it  is  from  the  fens  themselves, 
which  form  its  other  boundary;  it  is  a  place  of  rolling 
hills,  not  high  or  of  any  bold  outline,  but  often  topped 
with  clumps  of  trees,  and  giving  much  character  to  the 
view.  The  district ,  considering  its  nearness  to  Cambridge , 
is  deep  in  the  country,  having  neither  good  roads  nor  a 
convenient  railway  to  serve  it;  the  villagers,  lacking  the 
opportunity,  do  not  spend  Saturday  in  the  town,  and 
preserve  some  character  of  their  own;  the  grass-grown 
Roman  road  sets  a  boundary  to  the  locality,  bringing 
a  comfortable  assurance  of  tradition  to  those  who  are  its 
neighbours.  I  make  no  plea  for  the  place,  I  would  claim 
for  it  neither  great  beauty  nor  compelling  interest,  but 
I  would  uphold  its  charm.  There  is,  that  I  know  of, 
no  other  spot  that  so  nicely  conveys  the  impression  of 
upland  country  with  so  little  cause;  a  man  standing  upon 
some  summit  of  these  little  hills,  being  no  more  than  two 
hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  could  fancy  himself  abroad 
upon  a  moorland.  Whether  it  is  the  wide  sky  which 
helps  in  the  delusion,  or  whether  the  many  copses,  some 
of  beech  and  some  of  fir,  exaggerate  the  bareness  where 
once  a  forest  stood,  I  have  never  yet  decided;  but  I  know 
very  well  that  a  man  can  walk  here  gratefully,  in  summer 
when  the  land  is  baked  with  the  sun's  heat,  in  wind  and 
rain,  in  snow  and  frost,  or,  which  is  best,  when  the  mists 
rise  and  the  autumn  sunset  is  wrapped  in  gathering  dark, 
and  can  feel  that  good  sense  of  open  freshness  that  rightly 
comes  from  hilltops,  or  from  the  cliffs  beside  the  sea. 

This  fondness  for  the  corner  of  Cambridgeshire  where 
Elsingham  is  situated  Massingdale  shared  with  me,  and 


52  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

since,  during  the  Christmas  week  that  we  spent  with  the 
Onningtons,  it  did  little  else  but  snow,  he  spent  much 
of  the  time  in  walking,  a  business  of  which  he  was-  extra- 
ordinary fond.  He  would  start  out  after  breakfast,  for 
the  guests  were  always  free  to  do  what  they  wished, 
and  often  not  return  until  dark;  and  on  one  occasion  he 
took  Joan  with  him.  The  morning  was  heavy  and  threat- 
ening, and  the  snow  began  to  fall  steadily  about  one 
o'clock,  but  the  couple  did  not  return  until  an  hour  or 
more  after  it  was  dark,  by  which  time  Mrs.  Onnington 
had  worked  herself  into  a  fine  condition  of  agitation. 
When  they  did  make  their  appearance  they  came  in  a 
farm  cart,  and  Joan  looked,  although  she  stoutly  denied 
it,  extremely  tired.  While  she  was  upstairs  changing, 
Massingdale  gave  us  some  account  of  the  day,  standing 
in  front  of  the  hall  fire  and  consuming  toasted  buns. 

"I  am  a  fool,"  he  told  us,  "a  slow-witted,  blind  idiot. 
I  walked  your  daughter  off  her  legs,  Mrs.  Onnington, 
though  my  life  is  not  worth  a  moment 's  purchase  if  she 
knew  that  I  had  said  it.  We  were  about  six  miles  the 
other  side  of  Balsham,  and  the  going  pretty  heavy  in 
this  snow,  when  I  realised  that  she  was  tired;  then  it 
took  some  time  to  find  a  farm  and  a  cart  to  bring  us 
back." 

"I  don't  think  you  are  capable  of  looking  after  a 
woman,  or  yourself  for  that  matter,"  said  Mrs.  Onning- 
ton severely. 

"I  am  very  far  from  being  capable,"  he  apologised, 
and  his  absurd  manner,  I  believe,  extinguished  half  of 
her  just  maternal  wrath.  "I  will  do  penance.  I  '11  go 
up  to  bed  and  have  no  dinner."  And  he  went  up  and 
changed  his  sodden  clothes. 

That  same  night  Joan  showed  me  some  of  the  fruits 
of  the  walk.  She  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  billiard  room 


Settlement  of  a  Question  53 

after  dinner,  and  the  talk  ran  upon  art  and  artists.  I, 
wishing  to  see  how  the  land  lay,  cited  Massingdale  as 
an  able  dilettante,  and  she  was  up  in  arms  at  the  word. 

"I  thought  you  had  more  perception,  Dick,"  said  she, 
with  an  air  of  much  superiority.  "I  imagined  that, 
since  you  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  him,  you  would  have 
understood  that  Mr.  Massingdale  is  a  real  artist,  and 
that  he  is  only  making  a  living  out  of  this  law  work." 

I  did  not  pursue  the  subject,  and  I  did  not  point  out 
that  most  certainly  the  law  did  not  provide  him  with 
a  living,  but  I  was  mightily  amused;  I  imagined  that 
there  had  been  some  fine  Massingdale  oratory  as  they 
ploughed  together  through  the  snow. 

Two  days  afterwards,  when  we  left,  even  my  aunt 
showed  that  she  bore  Massingdale  no  grudge  for  keep- 
ing her  daughter  out  in  a  snowstorm,  and  he  was  made 
to  promise  that  he  would  repeat  the  visit;  which  thing 
he  did  very  cheerfully. 

For  the  next  two  months  matters  followed  a  not  very 
original  course.  I  lay  claim  to  no  extraordinary  per- 
ception, but  little  observation  was  required  to  make 
sure  of  the  state  of  affairs  between  Massingdale  and 
Joan.  That  the  man,  with  customary  impetuosity, 
rushed  on  his  fate  was  very  apparent ;  that  there  was  an 
equal  eagerness  on  the  other  side,  I  am  not  in  a  position 
to  state,  although  I  fancy  that  there  was.  In  any  case, 
the  inevitable  result  was  viewed  with  satisfaction  by 
everybody  concerned.  Captain  Massingdale  had  come 
home  on  leave,  had  passed  a  week  at  Elsingham,  and  had 
probably  discussed  the  matter  with  my  uncle;  he  cer- 
tainly welcomed  the  turn  of  events  as  putting  an  effectual 
stop  to  any  talk  of  the  career  of  an  artist.  Everything 
pointed  to  the  one  result ;  there  seemed  no  chance  of  any 
hitch;  and,  had  I  thought  of  it,  I  imagine  that  I  could 


54  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

have  obtained  pretty  long  odds  from  Tom,  Captain 
Massingdale,  or  my  uncle,  on  the  engagement  being 
declared  before  May  Day.  Yet  I  saw  more  of  Massing- 
dale himself  than  they  did,  and  there  were  times  when  I 
made  tolerably  sure  that  he  would  fly  the  whole  business 
and  get  him  off  to  Paris  and  Loissel's  studio  by  the 
next  train. 

The  state  of  the  lover  is  proverbially  agitated  and 
conducive  to  the  exhibition  of  varying  moods,  wherefore 
I  was  inclined  to  style  Massingdale  a  model  for  all 
men  in  this  condition,  since  he  was  one  moment  in  a 
state  of  absolute  content,  and  the  next  displayed  such 
restlessness  that  he  became  an  impossible  companion; 
but  I  take  it  that  there  was  more  than  the  one  cause 
working  to  disturb  him,  and  that  the  claims  of  two 
imperious  mistresses  gave  him  small  peace.  He  was 
no  fool,  and  he  did  not  shut  his  eyes  to  the  truth,  involv- 
ing himself  in  a  proposal  of  marriage  because  a  girl  had 
seized  his  fancy;  yet  he  was  a  man  whose  passions  ran 
high  and  strong,  and  no  one  could  call  him  other  than 
impetuous.  There  was  a  choice  which  faced  him,  and 
which  he  endeavoured  to  settle  in  the  way  that  he  thought 
best,  asking  advice  from  nobody,  relying,  as  he  always 
did,  on  his  own  judgment.  If  he  married  Joan  he  would 
•remain  at  the  Bar,  and  chance  its  favour,  settling  himself 
for  life  among  the  numbers  of  the  "damned  amateurs" 
as  far  as  painting  was  concerned;  if  he  did  not  ask  her 
to  marry  him — he  was,  I  imagine,  pretty  sure  of  her 
answer — he  would  likely  go  on  as  he  had  done,  dreaming 
of  his  artist's  life,  hesitating  some  long  while  before  he 
made  the  plunge;  that,  I  fancy,  was  the  way  he  saw 
the  business,  and  the  balance  seemed  down  upon  the 
marriage  side.  That  he  should  compromise,  avoid  the 
issue,  either  by  taking  a  prolonged  holiday,  or  simply 


Settlement  of  a  Question  55 

by  lack  of  action,  was,  I  am  certain,  a  thing  that  never 
occurred  to  him;  he  was,  in  nearly  all  things,  a  man  of 
quick  decision.  How  much  the  success  of  his  picture 
in  the  autumn  exhibition  weighed  with  him,  helping  him 
to  a  decision,  I  do  not  know.  He  was  so  different  to  the 
ordinary  man,  so  much  more  the  victim  of  strong  emotion, 
and  he  cared  so  little  for  the  obvious  questions  in  the 
case,  that  what  he  really  thought  about  the  matter  is 
much  of  a  speculation. 

That  he  had  much  difficulty  in  his  choice  was  alto- 
gether apparent.  During  the  early  part  of  that  year 
his  habits  became  more  curious  than  they  had  been 
before ;  he  walked  the  City  of  London  nightly,  and  came, 
as  near  as  was  possible  with  a  man  of  his  temperament, 
to  avoiding  other  people's  society.  I  had,  moreover, 
constantly  before  me  the  strange  spectacle  of  a  Massing- 
dale  who  was  often  silent,  and  whose  gaiety  was  forced 
and  unnatural,  who  seemed  chiefly  engaged  in  keeping 
me  from  the  discussion  of  topics  that  I  had  no  intention 
of  broaching.  The  company  that  still  gathered  weekly 
in  his  rooms,  though  the  day  had  been  changed  from 
Saturday  to  Friday  to  allow  him  to  get  away  for  the 
week-end,  noticed  a  change  in  their  host,  and,  knowing 
nothing  of  its  cause,  set  it  down  to  ill-health,  which 
conclusion  his  appearance  certainly  justified;  he  was, 
in  consequence,  the  recipient  of  much  original  advice, 
and  a  bottle  of  quack  medicine,  a  remedy  that  had 
secured  the  printed  support  of  Mr.  James  Hopkins. 
Matters,  indeed,  became  so  difficult,  he  showing  every 
sign  of  doing  something  foolish  if  he  did  not  settle  them 
before  long,  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  interfering  in 
affairs  which  did  not  concern  me,  and  of  urging  the  ne- 
cessity of  settling  the  business,  whether  he  cared  for  my 
meddling  or  not,  when  he  took  a  definite  step  himself. 


56  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

He  had  been  down  to  Elsingham  for  a  short  week- 
end, and  came  into  my  rooms  late  on  Sunday  night. 

"Dick,"  said  he,  without  any  preamble,  yet  looking 
at  me  with  some  expectancy,  "I  have  burnt  my  boats. 
I  have  made  my  choice.  Joan  has  promised  to  marry 
me." 

"My  dear  man,"  I  cried,  shaking  his  hand,  "I  wish 
both  of  you  the  best  of  luck. " 

"Anything  more?"  he  asked,  with  the  same  air  of 
expectancy. 

"Long  life  to  enjoy  it  in,"  I  told  him,  somewhat 
puzzled  by  his  attitude.  "Riches,  prosperity,  fame. 
I  meant  luck  to  include  the  lot.  What  more  do  you 
want?" 

1  "Thank  God!"  he  replied  in  a  tone  of  relief.  " Dick, 
I  name  you  the  model  of  true  friendship,  a  prince  among 
friends.  I  will  have  your  head  copied  in  marble,  and 
place  it,  laurel-crowned,  among  the  chiefest  of  my 
household  gods;  your  name  shall  be  honoured  by  my 
descendants;  and  my  eldest  son  shall  be  called  Richard. 
Loyal  and  devoted  companion,  I  hold  you  blessed 
beyond  all  other  males!" 

"Which  means?" 

"That  you  said  nothing,  but  that  you  wished  me 
happiness,"  he  answered  quietly,  staring  at  the  fire. 
"If  you  live  to  be  a  hundred  you  will  never  do  a  kinder 
act  than  that.  I  misjudged  you,  and  I  apologise;  I 
thought  you  like  the  others.  Even  my  father,  whom 
I  have  just  told,  had  to  improve  the  occasion.  He  is 
doubly  glad  to  hear  of  the  event,  Dick;  because  he  is 
sure  that  I  shall  be  happy  with  her,  and  because  marriage 
will  put  an  end  to  the  foolish  talk  about  becoming  a 
painter.  Why  cannot  people  think  a  little  before  they 
speak?  Don't  they  see  that  words  can  do  harm?  When 


Settlement  of  a  Question  57 

a  man  is  as  near  to  perfect  happiness  as  he  is  ever  likely 
to  get,  they  have  no  business  to  cloud  the  brightness  of 
his  hour.  They  must  realise  that  there  are  shadows, 
however  high  the  sun  is.  Yet  is  there  need  to  point 
them  out?  No  one  can  come  to  the  Elysian  fields  with- 
out some  suffering,  which  should  be  held  as  payment 
to  silence  the  detractors  in  the  moment  of  arrival." 

He  stopped  speaking,  and  the  room  was  very  silent 
for  some  minutes;  then  he  got  up  to  go.  At  the  door 
he  turned,  and  thanked  me  again. 

"I  am  not  in  the  least  concerned,"  he  informed  me, 
using  the  same  quiet  tone,  "whether  you  think  that  I 
have  been,  or  am,  the  greater  fool.  I  can  only  thank 
you  that  you  did  not  mention  the  subject  of  folly." 
And  he  went  out. 

After  he  had  gone  I  made  up  my  fire  and  settled 
comfortably  in  my  arm-chair  with  a  pipe ;  I  had  matter 
for  thought  before  me,  and  I  sat  late  over  it.  The 
attitude  has  been,  I  am  inclined  to  fancy,  typical  of 
my  whole  life;  I  have  often  held  a  watching  brief  in 
the  interest  of  my  friends,  but  I  have  seldom  engaged 
an  issue  on  my  own  account.  I  fancy  that  I  have  seen 
as  much  as  most  men  of  my  years,  yet  chiefly  from 
the  standpoint  of  the  observer  who,  although  he  may 
occasionally  take  a  part  in  the  playing,  is  not  personally 
concerned  at  the  result.  The  attitude  has  its  disad- 
vantages, but  it  certainly  makes  for  no  lack  of  interest 
in  the  play. 

As  I  sat  thinking  over  the  probable  chances  of  Massing- 
dale's  future,  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  the  promise 
of  much  trouble  ahead.  The  more  I  saw  of  the  man, 
and  I  saw  as  much  as  I  could,  the  more  I  became  con- 
vinced that  he  must  sooner  or  later  turn  to  painting; 
there  is  a  type  of  man,  and  he  is  usually  called  artist, 


58  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

whose  chief  concern  is  to  express,  on  paper,  on  canvas, 
or  on  a  music  score,  those  ideas  about  the  life  around 
him  which  appeal  to  him  as  beautiful,  and  of  this  type 
was  Massingdale.  To  reproduce  the  expression  of  some 
face  that  had  moved  him,  to  set  down  the  beauty  of  some 
landscape  as  he  saw  it,  was  of  more  importance  to  him 
than  to  attain  the  woolsack  or  the  cabinet;  in  view  of 
which,  his  continued  appearance  at  the  Bar  was  so  much 
folly.  When  such  desires  have  taken  possession  of  any 
man  or  woman,  they  will  out;  they  may  be  stifled  for  a 
time,  but  they  cannot  be  subjected;  and  they  have  a 
habit,  when  unduly  repressed,  of  breaking  out  when  the 
chance  of  their  satisfaction  is  gone  by,  when  the  only 
fruit  of  their  indulgence  can  be  regret.  Therefore, 
I  saw  Massingdale  newly  embarked  on  an  enterprise, 
the  conclusion  of  which  could  scarcely  be  untroubled. 
I  was  convinced,  and  after-events  confirmed  the  convic- 
tion, that  he  loved  Joan  as  it  is  the  happiness  of  few 
women  to  be  loved;  he  was  an  idealist,  and  he  had 
framed  his  dreams  about  her.  But  a  man  cannot  live 
on  his  love  for  a  woman ;  there  must  enter  other  interests 
to  his  life,  if  his  living  is  to  be  in  any  way  advantageous 
to  himself  or  others;  he  must  play  his  part  in  the  world 
on  a  larger  stage  than  his  own  hearth.  When  the  lover 
himself  is  well  aware  of  this,  and  when,  unhappily  for 
them  both,  the  stage  that  he  would  play  upon  is  one 
that,  under  the  circumstances,  he  may  not  mount, 
there  is  no  outcome  of  the  thing  but  trouble,  and  the 
shipwreck  of  one  or  other  fond  desire. 

I  viewed  the  problem  from  every  aspect  that  I  could 
arrive  at,  and  from  every  new  sight  of  it  I  came  back 
to  the  old  position;  I  was  not  able  to  imagine  that, 
whatever  might  be  his  delusions  at  the  moment,  and 
I  was  very  free  with  my  blame  to  him  for  having  those 


Settlement  of  a  Question  59 

delusions,  he  could  stifle  a  passion  that  was  at  least  as 
strong,  if  not  stronger  than  love.  I  blamed  him  for 
expecting  too  much,  and  I  blamed  him  for  not  seeing  the 
obvious,  and  very  rightly,  since,  if  we  are  to  settle  the 
affairs  of  others  any  better  than  our  own,  we  must  leave 
out  all  matter  that  makes  for  confusion.  I  forgot  that, 
at  times,  a  man  is  so  blinded  by  his  eagerness  that  he 
cannot  see  at  all.  Finally,  having  found  him  culpable 
on  every  charge,  I  remembered  that  he  had  thanked  me 
for  not  talking  of  folly,  and  was  grateful  to  the  chance 
that  had  caused  him  to  do  so,  and  went  to  bed,  seeing 
the  pity  of  the  thing,  yet  not  quite  so  ready  with  my 
condemnation. 

It  was  shortly  after  Easter,  which  came  late  that 
year,  that  Joan  and  Massingdale  settled  matters  be- 
tween them,  and  for  some  weeks  they  enjoyed  themselves 
after  the  manner  of  people  in  their  condition ;  they  must 
have  grown  somewhat  tired  of  being  informed  that  they 
were  ridiculously  young  to  think  of  marriage,  but  they 
doubtless  accepted  such  remarks  as  inevitable,  and 
gave  no  attention  to  them;  in  any  case,  they  seemed  to 
find  little  fault  with  life.  Joan,  in  particular,  provided 
me  with  a  deal  of  amusement;  she  was  so  very  patently 
delighted  at  the  turn  of  events,  and  would  sometimes, 
being  entirely  unconscious  of  her  lack  of  originality, 
grow  confidential  with  me  on  the  subject  of  the  pitiful 
condition  of  the  bachelor.  She  was  in  love  with  Mass- 
ingdale, but  she  was  a  long  cry  from  understanding  him. 
It  is  very  easy  to  suggest  the  attitude  of  the  parties 
concerned,  after  the  events  in  which  they  moved  have 
taken  place,  in  spite  of  which  thing  I  still  maintain 
that  I  saw  the  weak  point  of  Joan's  position  before 
circumstances  had  discovered  it.  She  treated  the  man 
whom  she  proposed  to  marry  as  a  brilliant  and  fascinat- 


60  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

ing  toy,  clearly  designed  for  her  delight;  she  was  proud 
of  him,  and  she  was  fond  of  him,  but  she  did  not  under- 
stand, I  fancy,  that  the  qualities  which  so  attracted  her 
were  not  mere  tricks  of  speech  and  manner,  but  the 
expression  of  the  nature  of  the  man.  She  imagined,  I 
believe,  that  Massingdale,  in  face  of  his  obvious  peculiari- 
ties, would  act  in  all  important  things  in  the  same  way 
as  the  other  men  she  knew;  and  when  he  did  not,  she 
was  much  upset.  Being  very  young,  and  without  any 
experience,  she  had  made  sure  that  the  things  which 
she  called  right  and  fitting  he  would  so  name  also;  when 
she  found  that  he  did  something  that  at  the  first  appear- 
ance seemed  to  her  altogether  wrong,  she  made  no 
allowance  for  a  different  standpoint,  and  acted,  without 
hesitation,  in  the  heat  of  her  surprise. 

Towards  the  end  of  May,  Massingdale  disturbed  me 
one  morning  while  I  breakfasted,  coming  into  my  room 
with  a  note  in  his  hand,  and  seating  himself  at  the  open 
window. 

"For  a  man  who  has  legal  ambitions  you  breakfast 
at  an  ungodly  hour,"  said  he.  "All  judges,  I  am  in- 
formed, sit  down  to  their  morning  meal  at  eight  o'clock 
precisely.  Think  of  the  future,  and  weep. ' ' 

"I  am  providing  against  possible  contingencies,"  I 
assured  him. 

At  that  he  bowed,  deeply  contrite. 

"Wretched  being  that  I  am,"  he  cried,  "I  have 
wronged  a  man  whose  wisdom  exceeds  mine  as  the 
owl's  that  of  the  louse.  I  had  always  imagined  that  you 
breakfasted  at  ten  on  account  of  natural  sloth.  But  I 
came  to  ask  you  a  favour. " 

"About  that  letter  you  are  waving  about?" 

"Yes,  mountain  of  perspicacity,"  he  replied,  "it  is. 
Will  you  gird  yourself  with  your  best  boiled  shirt  this 


Settlement  of  a  Question  61 

evening,  and  betake  you,  in  my  company,  to  Berkeley 
Square,  the  residence  of  Henry  Wrant,  knight,  there  to 
dine?" 

"Why  is  my  presence  desired?"  I  asked.  "I  do 
not  know  Sir  Henry  Wrant." 

"To  fill  up  the  table,  presumably.  Lady  Wrant  has 
written  asking  me  to  come,  and  to  bring  another  man, 
frankly  confessing  that  two  have  failed  her.  The  food 
is  good,  gourmet;  the  wine  is  excellent,  bibber;  the 
company  is  often  entertaining,  butterfly.  Will  you 
come?" 

"Right!    What  time?" 

"  Eight, "  said  he.    "  You  promise  that?  " 

"I  have  done  so,"  I  told  him.    "Why  ask?" 

"Because,"  he  replied  solemnly,  "I  want  your  pledge. 
Call  me  evil  names,  Dick;  I  am  no  true  friend.  The 
newly  aproned  bishop  is  to  be  there!" 

"What  bishop?" 

"My  holy  cousin,  the  Right  Reverend  Magram- 
Coke!" 

"Well,  I  'm  damned!    The  man  is  a  bishop?" 

"  His  gaiters,  which  he  won't  be  wearing,  are  disgust- 
ingly new,"  answered  Massingdale,  in  the  manner  of 
a  man  much  afflicted.  "He  is  a  bishop  of  one  week's 
standing,  and  a  miserable  suffragan  at  that.  I  hope  the 
man  above  him,  a  real  bishop  I  imagine,  comes  it  pretty 
heavy  in  the  superior  officer  line  of  business.  Can  you 
forgive  me  this  betrayal?" 

"Possibly,  in  time,"  I  answered,  "and  if  the  dinner 
is  good." 

"I  must  go,"  he  announced,  getting  up.  "Know,  my 
friend,  that  la  petite  Yvonne  is  again  in  town.  I  must 
go  and  tell  her  of  my  engagement." 

"I  should, "  I  laughed ;  "she  will  be  pleased  to  hear  it. " 


62  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"At  times,  Richard,"  said  he,  as  he  went  out,  "you 
remind  me  of  a  fool." 

Dinner  at  the  Wrants',  I  had  been  given  to  understand 
by  those  who  had  dined  there,  was  a  pleasant  function 
as  well  as  a  good  meal.  The  host  was  a  man  who  could 
set  the  talk  going  on  lines  of  interest,  keeping  his  con- 
siderable knowledge  of  the  East  to  flavour  his  conversa- 
tion rather  than  to  instruct  his  guests ;  and  the  men  and 
women  who  sat  at  his  table  did  not  usually  lack  charac- 
ter. In  spite  of  the  presence  of  Magram-Coke — and 
why  the  man  should  ever  have  been  asked  to  the  Wrants' 
house  I  could  not  conceive — I  looked  forward  to  an 
evening's  entertainment,  although  scarcely  one  of  the 
quality  of  that  which  we  obtained. 

When  we  arrived  at  Berkeley  Square  we  found  Coke 
already  installed,  and  filling  the  drawing-room  with  his 
suave,  consciously  gentle  talk.  As  I  spoke  with  my 
host  and  hostess,  I  heard  the  episcopal  greeting  to 
Massingdale,  and  could  form  some  idea  of  the  feelings 
of  the  recipient. 

"Ah,  Kenneth,  I  have  a  pleasant  duty  to  perform," 
Coke  remarked  archly.  "I  have  not  seen  you  since 
your  engagement.  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you,  and 
to  express  my  heartfelt  wishes  for  your  true  happiness. 
You  are  about  to  undertake  a  very  solemn  responsi- 
bility, but  I  am  sure  that,  with  God's  help,  you  will 
perform  your  duty." 

"I  hope  so,"  answered  Massingdale,  smiling. 

"I  have,"  went  on  the  bishop  in  his  best  manner, 
"a  very  sincere  regard  for  your  welfare.  I  was,  until 
this  happy  event,  somewhat  anxious  about  your  future." 
Here  his  attitude  expressed  a  broad-minded  condona- 
tion of  past  faults,  and  his  voice  became  increasingly 
bland.  "There  was  talk  of  all  manner  of  foolishness, 


Settlement  of  a  Question  63 

Kenneth,  on  which  we  need  not  lay  stress.  Marriage, 
I  am  confident,  will  drive  all  those  youthful  fancies 
about  art,  fancies  that  we  have  all  experienced  at  one 
time,  out  of  your  head.  You  have  a  very  pretty  picture 
of  your  own  to  think  about?"  And  the  right  reverend 
gentleman  indulged  in  decorous  laughter  at  his  own 
jest. 

"I  think,"  said  Lady  Wrant  to  me,  "that  I  had 
better  go  and  rescue  poor  Mr.  Massingdale. " 

"If  you  don't  want  that  clerical  suavity  sorely  tried 
by  some  extravagant  remark,  I  think,  my  dear,  that 
you  had  better  do  so, "  answered  Sir  Henry. 

From  which  remarks  it  was  not  hard  to  deduce  that 
Magram-Coke  dined  that  night  as  the  guest  of  polite- 
ness rather  than  esteem,  which,  I  take  it,  was  a  common 
position  of  his. 

There  were  ten  of  us  at  dinner,  the  other  man  being 
an  Egyptian  civilian  home  on  leavs,  and  a  very  decent 
fellow,  who  seemed  highly  amused  at  the  course  of 
events.  The  first  part  of  the  meal  passed  in  very  ordinary 
fashion;  Massingdale,  in  whose  expression  I  read  signs 
of  battle,  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  to  the  bishop, 
and  was,  therefore,  spared  further  conversation  with  him. 
When  we  were  alone  with  our  wine,  the  trouble  began 
almost  immediately,  and  it  was  certainly  of  Coke's 
seeking.  He  pushed  his  chair  back,  crossed  his  legs,  and 
gave  us  his  opinions  with  the  air  of  a  man  bestowing 
something  of  value. 

"I  was  in  Paris  recently,"  he  began,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  four  of  us,  "and  I  visited  the  Salon.  Half  a  glass — 
no  more,  Sir  Henry.  I  confirmed  the  opinion,  which 
I  have  always  held,  that  art  runs  sadly  away  from  her 
true  course. " 

"Surely    that    is    rather    a    sweeping    statement?" 


64  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

answered  our  host,  with  an  amused  glance  at  Massing- 
dale,  who  had  sat  forward  with  his  arms  on  the  table, 
and  his  whole  figure  expressing  disgust. 

"I  am  afraid,"  pursued  Magram-Coke,  "that  it  is, 
unhappily,  only  too  true.  I  wish  it  were  not. " 

"What  should  you  define  as  the  true  course  of  art?" 
Massingdale  demanded  abruptly. 

"  The  function  of  art  is  to  help  us  to  a  truer  and  nobler 
life, "  the  bishop  announced. 

"Do  you  deny  that  it  sometimes  succeeds  in  that?" 
I  inquired. 

"Sometimes!  There  you  have  the  evil,"  was  his 
answer.  "Sometimes  it  fulfils  its  high  mission,  often 
it  does  incalculable  harm.  Until  it  is  purged  of  its 
fondness  for  arousing  the  base  passions  of  man,  it  must 
be  more  of  a  danger  to  us  than  a  help. " 

"What,  in  the  name  of  sanity,  do  you  mean?"  asked 
Massingdale;  I  could  see  that  the  man  was  becoming 
worked  up  to  a  high  pitch  of  excitement. 

"It  is,  surely,  only  too  obvious,"  continued  Magram- 
Coke,  intent  on  making  an  impression,  "that  even  those 
men,  whose  place  is  the  most  honoured  in  the  world 
of  artists,  have  often  given  birth  to  work  that  is  an 
offence  to  any  one  of  pure  mind,  and  that  they  have 
thereby  done  more  harm  than  can  be  corrected  by  the 
influence  of  their  better  creative  moments. " 

"Would  you  mind  explaining  what  you  wish  to  say, 
by  naming  examples?"  Massingdale  asked,  speaking 
very  quietly. 

Now,  I  hold  that  Sir  Henry  was  in  part  responsible 
for  what  happened  afterwards,  because  at  this  moment 
a  servant  entered  with  coffee  and  cigars,  and  it  would 
have  been  no  difficult  matter  to  set  the  talk  going  on 
some  other  topic  after  the  slight  interruption;  he  did 


Settlement  of  a  Question  65 

not,  however,  attempt  any  such  diversion,  although 
he  must  have  realised,  knowing  something  of  Massing- 
dale,  that  a  very  heated  outburst  threatened.  If  he 
did  anything  it  was  to  encourage  the  discussion;  and 
he  confessed  afterwards  that  he  would  not  have  inter- 
fered for  a  hundred  pounds. 

"Certainly,"  continued  Magram-Coke,  having  helped 
himself  to  coffee,  "I  will  give  you  instances,  Kenneth; 
that  is,  if  Sir  Henry  does  not  mind  our  continuing  this 
discussion. " 

"By  all  means,  please  go  on,"  said  our  host.  And 
the  bishop  pursued  the  matter  farther  with  increasing 
contentment. 

"I  saw  in  the  Salon  a  very  large  number  of  what, 
I  believe,  are  termed  '  studies  of  the  nude.' " 

"I  can  believe  it,"  gasped  Massingdale.  "But  you 
don't  base  your  assertions  on  that?" 

"It  reminded  me,  as  I  have  said,  of  this  unhappy 
tendency  in  art,"  Magram-Coke  replied. 

"Do  you  think  that  a  picture  of  a  man's  body,  or 
a  woman's,  naked,  often  does  incalculable  harm?"_  Mass- 
ingdale inquired,  in  a  strained  voice. 

"Really,  Kenneth,"  the  bishop  continued,  and  his 
face  expressed  a  sorrowful  pain  at  the  mere  discussion 
of  such  matters,  "I  fail  to  see  what  good  such  pictures 
can  accomplish." 

"Do  you  see  nothing  beautiful  in  the  naked  body 
of  a  man  or  woman?" 

"That  is  a  subject  which  I  do  not  care  to  discuss," 
Magram-Coke  replied. 

"It  is  a  subject  which  you  yourself  started,"  retorted 
Massingdale,  making  no  attempt  to  disguise  his  anger. 

I  confess  that  I  was  beginning  to  feel  uncomfortable; 
I  did  not  know  my  host,  and  I  was  not  sure  how  he  would 


66  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

take  the  outburst  which  was  threatening.  But  Sir 
Henry  Wrant  sat  watching  Massingdale  with  much 
interest,  and  contented  himself  with  urging  on  the 
discussion. 

"Won't  you  explain  to  us,"  said  he,  addressing 
Magram-Coke,  "the  reason  that  you  object  to  the 
painting,  and,  I  presume,  the  sculpture,  of  the  nude?" 

"  Certainly, Sir  Henry,  certainly, "the  bishop  answered. 
"I  am  afraid  that  Kenneth  may  still  preserve  some 
of  the  fancies  that  he  once  professed,  and  that  he 
will  disagree  with  me,  but  I  must  not  shirk  my  duty  on 
that  account." 

"God  help  us!"  muttered  Massingdale;  but  the  bishop 
was  too  occupied  with  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  to 
pay  attention  to  the  interruption. 

"I  hold,"  he  continued  piously,  "that  these  studies, 
no  matter  what  may  have  been  the  intention  of  their 
creator,  are  liable  to  do  very  serious  harm.  It  has 
been  wisely  ordained  that  man  should  cover  his  naked- 
ness with  garments,  and  I  cannot  see  that  anything 
but  evil  can  come  from  the  portrayal,  in  public  galleries, 
of  the  undraped  bodies  of  men  and  women.  This  form 
of  picture  is,  to  my  mind,  to  be  classed  with  certain 
songs,  and  certain  books,  which  suggest  indecency 
under  a  thin  cloak  of  artistic  disguise. " 

Here  Massingdale  put  a  sudden  end  to  the  discussion ; 
he  had  for  some  time  past  been  fidgeting  on  his  seat  like  a 
man  in  pain,  now  he  burst  forth  in  anger.  Leaning  for- 
ward with  an  abrupt  movement,  he  upset  his  coffee  cup, 
but  did  not  seem  to  notice  what  he  had  done.  His 
eyes  shone  with  passion,  and  his  right  hand,  which  was 
stretched  out  on  the  table,  shook;  yet  his  voice  was  low 
when  he  first  began  to  speak. 

"And  I  hold,"  he  cried,  "that  a  man  who  thinks 


Settlement  of  a  Question  67 

the  things  that  you  have  just  said,  is  not  a  fit  person 
to  mix  with  ordinary  men  and  women.  If  you  really 
see  anything  indecent  in  the  simple  picture  of  a  naked 
woman,  I  advise  you  to  be  very  careful  or  your  filthy 
mind  will  bring  you  to  a  criminal  dock  on  some  dis- 
graceful charge.  Meanwhile,  whether  you  have  just 
been  giving  us  your  true  thoughts,  or  whether,  as  I 
imagine,  you  have  mouthed  a  stupid  lie  to  suit  your 
damned  hypocritical  pose,  I  would  ask  you  to  spare 
ordinary  men  your  peculiarly  obscene  talk. " 

For  a  moment  I  thought  that  Coke  would  be  startled 
from  his  habitual  pose  of  saintly  humilitude;  I  imagined 
that  there  trembled  on  his  lips  some  natural  phrase  of 
angry  retort,  but  he  was  well  schooled  in  his  hypocrisy, 
and  he  managed  to  maintain  his  part;  yet,  if  his  eyes 
were  any  guide,  the  man  had  come  very  near  to  con- 
quering the  attitude. 

"Kenneth,  my  dear  boy,"  he  reproved,  his  voice 
more  unctuous  than  usual,  and  his  manner  that  of 
great  suffering,  "you  cannot  think  what  you  are  saying. 
To-morrow,  I  am  sure,  you  will  be  ready  to  ask  the 
pardon  that  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  give." 

Massingdale  had  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  had  sat 
back  as  Coke  began  speaking,  and  when  the  latest 
example  of  true  forbearance  had  been  delivered,  he 
took  no  notice  of  the  speaker;  instead,  he  replaced  the 
coffee  cup  which  he  had  upset,  apologising  to  his  host 
for  his  clumsiness. 

"It  is  of  no  consequence  at  all,"  Sir  Henry  informed 
him,  his  manner  giving  no  hint  of  his  appreciation  of 
the  late  interchange  of  opinions.  "But  we  have  been 
sitting  talking  a  long  while,  suppose  we  join  the  women- 
folk in  the  drawing-room." 

After  Magram-Coke  had  taken  his  departure,  which 


68  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

he  did  at  an  early  hour,  the  matter  of  Massingdale's 
outburst  was  discussed.  The  Egyptian  civilian  was 
outspoken  in  his  pleasure,  the  "incredible  bishop  per- 
son" had  not  pleased  him;  Sir  Henry  Wrant  explained, 
in  answer  to  Massingdale's  apologies,  that  he  did  not 
in  the  least  object  to  the  business. 

"  It  was  inevitable  from  the  start, "  he  insisted,  smiling. 
"I  could  have  stopped  it,  if  I  had  wished.  But  I  am 
afraid  the  truth  that  you  told  him,  Massingdale,  will 
have  no  effect  on  our  right  reverend  acquaintance;  he 
is  far  beyond  being  improved. " 

"I  never  thought  about  him,"  Massingdale  answered. 
"I  spoke  because  his  idiotic  drivel  forced  me  to  it.  His 
canonisation  or  his  damnation  is  a  matter  which  does  not 
interest  me." 

"Yet  you  have  made  a  nasty  enemy,"  suggested 
Lady  Wrant.  "He  won't  forget  what  you  said  to  him, 
and  he  will  do  you  all  the  harm  he  can.  But  sit  down 
and  talk  to  me  about  something  more  amusing. " 

Massingdale  shook  his  head  and  laughed. 

"I  can't,"  he  explained.  "My  dear  cousin  has  en- 
sured that  I  shall  think  about  him  all  the  evening.  I 
will  call  on  you,  Lady  Wrant,  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
and  then  I  will  talk  at  your  bidding.  To-night  I  must 
go;  what  is  more,  I  must  take  the  unhappy  Richard 
Crutchley  with  me.  We  will  walk  the  streets  together, 
and  he  will  listen  patiently  to  much  foolish  talk,  until 
the  vision  of  the  Magram-Coke  creature  is  driven  from 
our  heads." 

Which  thing  we  did,  subject  to  a  slight  modification 
of  the  programme;  for  when  we  had  been  aimlessly 
tramping  about  for  half  an  hour  or  more,  I  struck,  and 
we  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  drinking  lager  beer 
in  a  German  beer-hall.  Owing  to  the  fortunate  circum- 


Settlement  of  a  Question  69 

stance  that  Massingdale  sat  next  to  a  citizen  of  Leipzig, 
who  waxed  exceedingly  communicative  on  the  subject  of 
English  feeding,  I  escaped  further  discussion  of  the 
new  suffragan  bishop. 


CHAPTER  V 

OF  AN  ACT  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

ONE  afternoon  about  a  week  later  I  was  walking 
down  the  Borough  High  Street,  in  which  neigh- 
bourhood I  had  had  business.  I  do  not  share  Massing- 
dale's  fondness  for  wandering  in  unsavoury  quarters, 
and  I  found  little  to  interest  me,  or  to  cause  me  to  saun- 
ter. The  afternoon  was,  however,  very  hot,  and  I  was 
thirsty,  so  that  I  looked  out  for  a  decent  place  in  which 
to  drink.  I  passed  a  cheap  eating-house,  where  the 
chief  dish  for  the  day  was  announced  on  a  slate  that 
hung  on  the  door-post;  a  warm  smell  of  stale  food  and 
sawdust  was  about  the  place,  and  the  interior,  seen 
through  the  open  door,  looked  ugly  and  uninteresting; 
but  I  saw  that  the  room  was  not  too  full,  and  it  occurred 
to  me  that  I  had  never  been  in  such  surroundings  before, 
and  that  I  might  get  tea  there  as  well  as  anywhere  else 
in  the  district.  So  I  went  in.  As  I  walked  to  an  empty 
table,  intent  on  trying  to  appear  not  altogether  out  of 
place,  some  one  touched  me  on  the  arm.  I  turned 
quickly,  and  saw  Massingdale  smiling  at  me  in  amuse- 
ment. 

"'Streuth,'  Dick,"  said  he,  "I  did  not  expect  to 
find  you  in  such  places.  Don't  stare,  Mr.  Crutchley; 
it  is  rude.  This  is  Master  William  Egger,  my  guest  at 
a  composite,  and  I  hope  full,  meal.  Won't  you  join  us?" 

70 


An  Act  of  Friendship  71 

I  sat  down  next  to  Massingdale  and,  in  defiance  of 
his  reproof,  eyed  his  guest  in  .some  astonishment.  I 
had  become  accustomed  to  peculiar  conduct  on  his  part, 
but  the  promiscuous  finding  of  stray  slum  children  was  a 
proceeding  that  I  had  never  anticipated;  yet  I  had  the 
entertaining  spectacle  before  me  of  Massingdale,  appar- 
ently well  content,  supplying  an  embryo  criminal  of 
forbidding  aspect  with  a  strange  assortment  of  food. 
Master  William  Egger  was  exceedingly  small;  could  not 
have  been  more  than  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  of  age; 
had  close-cropped  red  hair,  a  white  face,  very  dirty,  and 
no  external  evidence  of  any  attractive  or  desirable 
qualities.  He  did  not  look  a  pleasant  child,  I  must 
suppose,  under  favourable  circumstances,  but  in  the 
midst  of  enthusiastic  and  noisy  feeding  he  put  an  animal 
greed  to  his  former  disadvantages,  which  added  nothing 
to  his  beauty. 

He  sat  opposite  to  Massingdale,  leaning  forward  to 
the  table,  and,  when  he  could  spare  a  moment  from  his 
absorbing  occupation,  eyed  his  host  furtively  and  with 
some  enquiry.  I  imagine  that  he  was  much  confused, 
since  Massingdale 's  manner  was  scarcely  that  of  the 
ordinary  philanthropist.  Whatever  may  have  been  his 
curiosity  it  did  not  interfere  with  his  appetite.  I  ordered 
some  tea,  which  was  peculiarly  nasty,  and  sat  watching 
the  urchin.  When  he  had  finished  off  his  meal  with  a 
couple  of  meat  pies,  he  sat  back  with  a  grunt. 

"Won't  you  have  something  more?"  asked  Massing- 
dale. 

"Bloomin'  well  full,  I  am,  guv'ner,"  answered  the 
child  hoarsely,  in  a  voice  as  ugly  as  his  appearance. 
"I  cawn't  do  no  more,  s'elp  me,  thenking  yer." 

"Then  take  a  couple  of  the  pies  for  future  occasions," 
suggested  Massingdale,  pushing  the  plate  towards  him. 


72  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

William  Egger  did  not  reply,  but  pocketed  four  of 
the  pies  in,  really,  very  smart  fashion.  Massingdale 
winked  at  me,  but  did  not  otherwise  draw  attention  to 
the  number  concealed. 

"I  do  not  think,"  said  he,  addressing  the  boy, 
"that  you  need  hang  about  any  longer,  young  man.  I 
hope  you  have  enjoyed  the  afternoon  as  much  as  I 
have." 

"Gam,"  replied  William  Egger  briefly,  sliding  from 
his  chair;  he  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  wondering  what 
he  should  do;  looked  at  the  other  tables  aggressively, 
where,  I  noticed,  we  were  creating  much  interest;  and 
then  added  in  his  hoarse,  Cockney  voice:  "Fair  knocked 
some  on  'em,  we  did.  So  long,  guv'ner. " 

After  which  statement,  and  without  condescending 
to  notice  my  presence,  he  went  out  into  the  street. 

"Suppose  we  get  to  some  fresher  air  than  this," 
said  Massingdale,  paying  the  bill.  "That  is,  if  you  have 
finished  your  tea. " 

"I  have  not,"  I  answered,  "and  I'm  not  going  to 
finish  it.  Come  on." 

When  we  were  outside,  walking  towards  London 
Bridge,  I  endeavoured  to  satisfy  my  curiosity,  which 
was  great. 

"Why  the  devil  have  you  taken  to  entertaining  infant 
criminals  in  their  own  haunts?"  I  inquired. 

"Why,  O  Richard,"  he  answered,  twirling  his  stick 
to  the  great  danger  of  the  other  pedestrians,  "have  you 
taken  to  drinking  a  dish  of  tea  in  a  squalid  eating- 
house?  Yours  is  the  more  surprising  action. " 

"I  was  passing,"  I  assured  him,  "and  I  thought  that 
I  would  try  to  see  what  attracts  you  in  such  places. 
I  did  not  discover  anything." 

"A  good  defence,"  he  allowed,  lunging  at  a  lamp- 


An  Act  of  Friendship  73 

post.  "I  entertained  my  friend  William,  who  will 
certainly  develop  into  a  very  decent  criminal,  because 
he  is  an  astute  critic  of  human  nature. " 

"Explain,  you  lunatic,"  I  implored. 

"You  interrupt  my  explanation,"  he  protested, 
stopping  to  look  at  the  river  as  we  got  on  to  the  bridge. 
"After  lunch  I  went  out  to  take  the  air  on  the  Embank- 
ment, and  to  watch  the  gulls  being  fed  with  fish.  As 
I  approached  a  group  of  the  great  people  engaged  in 
this  amusing  occupation,  I  saw  my  friend  William  seated 
on  a  bench;  I  had  not,  then,  the  pleasure  of  William's 
acquaintance.  He  was,  as  I  came  up,  about  to  transfer 
a  silk  handkerchief  from  the  bench  to  his  own  pocket. 
William  is,  as  yet,  only  an  apprentice  in  thieving;  he 
caught  my  eye,  as  the  expression  goes,  and  became 
embarrassed. 

"  'I  see,'  says  I,  'that  you  have  found  a  handkerchief. 
Do  you  know  who  dropped  it?' 

"'I  was  jist  agoin'  to  give  it  to  'im,  guv'ner,'  replied 
William,  in  his  agreeable  tones. 

"'Who  is  him?' says  I. 

"'Why  'im,'  answers  William,  pointing;  'that  there 
bloomin'  snuffler  in  the  gaiters.' 

"The  'bloomin'  snuffler,'  O  mon  Richard,  was  our 
sainted  cousin,  that  most  holy  divine  the  Lord  Bishop 
of  Tooting  Bee,  or  wherever  it  is.  When  William  had 
returned  the  handkerchief,  which  he  did  with  evident 
reluctance,  he  and  I  went  off  together;  a  child  who 
could  so  accurately  describe  our  dear  relative  was,  you 
will  surely  agree,  worthy  of  some  attention.  Who  am 
I  that  I  should  not  hail  genius  when  I  meet  it?  A 
'bloomin'  snuffler'!  A  God-given  phrase  which  shall 
comfort  me  on  many  sad  occasions. " 

Here  Massingdale  ceased  his  explanation  and  walked 


74  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

beside  me  in  silence,  his  eyes  laughing  and  his  whole 
carriage  expressing  his  delight. 

"That  does  not  explain  how  you  got  to  the  Borough 
High  Street, "  I  told  him,  after  a  pause. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  smiling,  "that  was  William's  choice; 
I  could  scarcely  do  less  than  consult  my  guest.  After 
a  visit  to  the  Whispering  Gallery  of  St.  Paul's,  where 
William  whispered  very  hoarsely,  we  took  a  cab  to  the 
eating-house,  which  is  William's  favourite  resort  when 
he  is  in  funds.  As  he  very  properly  put  it,  his  presence 
there  with,  apparently,  unlimited  gold  at  his  disposition 
would  make  'the  other  coves  wot  I  know  so  bloomin' 
wild.'  He  seemed  pleased  with  the  result,  when  he 
left  us." 

"It  is  possible  to  conceive  better  moral  guides  for 
the  young  man  than  yourself,"  I  suggested.  "Did  you 
tell  Master  William  Egger  the  cause  of  your  hospitality?  " 

"I  did,"  replied  Massingdale;  "but  he  seemed  to 
think  me  a  fool  for  not  having  heard  the  phrase  before. 
William  is  an  enlightened,  though  scarcely  a  polite, 
child." 

Massingdale  was  silent  as  we  passed  St.  Paul's 
Station,  coming  from  Upper  Thames  Street,  but  when 
we  got  on  to  the  Embankment  he  suddenly  dashed  into 
another  subject. 

"Exit  William,"  he  announced  solemnly.  "William 
was  an  episode,  and  he  is  passed;  in  mortal  fashion  he 
has  vanished  into  the  unknown.  We  will  talk  of  other 
things.  Have  you  observed,  my  friend,  that,  at  the 
inexorable  bidding  of  Time,  we  move  towards  the  Long 
Vacation?" 

"Curiously  enough,  I  have,"  I  answered. 

"You  are  observant,"  he  assured  me,  with  much 
gravity.  "The  occasion  has  its  significance.  After 


An  Act  of  Friendship  75 

the  Long  Vacation  I  shall  no  longer  inhabit  Brick 
Court;  I  shall  have  become  a  model,  for  the  benefit  of 
all  my  friends,  of  domestic  respectability;  I  shall  be 
married.  I  decline  to  hang  on  much  longer  in  this 
futile  fashion;  I  shall  bring  eloquence,  prayers,  and 
tears  to  my  assistance;  I  shall  assail  the  parties  most 
concerned  with  a  ceaseless  clamour;  and  I  shall  gain 
my  way.  To  be  engaged  and  to  continue  in  that  state 
contentedly,  is,  to  a  man  of  spirit,  intolerable;  no  one, 
whose  mind  is  not  that  of  a  fish,  can  endure  for  long 
a  condition  so  amorphous.  Therefore  I  will  get  married 
speedily,  my  Richard,  and  I  will  make  my  bow  to 
many  of  my  old  delights.  For  we  pay  for  the  joys  of 
to-morrow  by  the  loss  of  those  of  to-day — which  remark 
has,  possibly,  been  made  by  others.  Kind  sir,  I  hear 
the  chime  of  distant  bells. " 

And  being,  as  he  always  was,  perfectly  oblivious  to 
what  others  might  think  of  his  behaviour,  he  stoppd  in 
the  middle  of  the  pavement,  and  requested  me  to  listen 
to  their  pleasant  melody. 

"I  sincerely  hope,"  said  I,  "that  marriage  may  give 
you  some  little  appearance  of  sense.  But  for  heaven's 
sake  come  on;  there  is  a  knave  behind  you  with  fish 
for  sale,  and  he  obviously  thinks  you  want  to  buy  some." 

Massingdale  turned  round  without  replying,  and 
purchased  six  penny  bags  of  fish;  two  of  which,  to  my 
considerable  disgust,  he  handed  to  me. 

"Have  you  ever  played  this  game?"  he  asked,  throw- 
ing small  pieces  of  fish  over  the  river,  where  they  were 
caught  by  the  gulls  before  they  reached  the  water. 

"No,"  I  replied  shortly,  "and  I  '11  be  damned  if  I 
begin  now." 

"Richard,"  he  answered,  apparently  very  much 
amused,  "a  top-hat  and  a  tail-coat  will  be  the  ruin  of 


76  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

you.  Observe.  Although  I  wear  the  same  form  of 
clothing,  I  throw  fish  with  skill  and  accuracy. " 

Seeing,  however,  that  I  would  not  be  persuaded  to 
join  him  in  fish  throwing,  he  presented  the  remaining 
bags  to  some  children,  and  we  continued  our  walk. 

"Since,"  he  remarked,  continuing  the  conversation,  as 
if  it  had  not  been  interrupted,  "my  days  as  a  bachelor 
are  numbered,  we  will  make  use  of  them.  Will  you 
dine  with  me  to-night  in  Soho,  and  afterwards  find  such 
amusement  as  may  offer  itself  to  us?" 

"I  will,"  I  agreed,  not  sorry  to  get  the  chance,  as  I 
had  been  very  busy  for  some  time  past.  "By  the  way, 
you  were  telling  me  the  other  day  that  Yvonne  Carrel 
was  in  town.  Have  you  seen  anything  of  her?  " 

At  the  mention  of  her  name  Massingdale  let  all  his 
laughing  mood  slip  from  him,  and  took  on  a  manner 
that  had  a  deal  of  sadness  in  it.  He  hesitated  a  minute 
or  two  before  answering,  as  if  he  were  not  certain 
of  what  he  should  say,  a  thing  very  unusual  with 
him. 

"I  have,"  he  answered  at  last.  "I  have  seen  her 
twice.  There  is  the  shadow  of  tragedy  hanging  about 
her,  Dick,  a  miserable,  sordid  tragedy  of  failure,  from 
which  I  cannot  see  any  escape. " 

"What  on  earth  is  wrong?"  I  questioned  in  surprise, 
for  from  what  I  had  seen  of  her  I  judged  that  nothing 
of  the  depth  of  tragedy  would  ever  touch  her.  The 
woman  I  imagined  her  to  be,  laughed  much,  often  mixed 
tears  and  laughter,  touched  the  world  lightly,  asking 
nothing  serious  from  it;  she  would  be  kind  to  others 
because  it  was  her  nature,  she  would  obey  her  simple 
instincts,  and  be  called,  by  the  short-sighted,  a  bad 
woman  on  that  account;  but  that  she  should  ever 
journey  to  the  wild  land  of  tragedy,  leaving  the  smooth 


An  Act  of  Friendship  77 

valleys  of  carelessness,  was  a  chance  that  I  had  not 
foreseen. 

Massingdale  stopped  walking,  and  leaned  his  elbow  on 
the  stone  balustrade  guarding  the  river;  I  did  the  same 
thing,  seeing  that  he  wished  to  talk. 

"I  think,"  he  answered,  speaking  slowly,  "that  you 
have  seen  enough  of  her  to  know  that  her  voice  is  very 
much  to  her,  that  however  shallow  and  foolish  she  may 
seem  in  other  things,  in  music,  in  her  art,  she  touches 
something  deep-rooted  and  secure." 

I  nodded ;  and  he  continued  in  the  same  voice. 

"Well,  unless  something  happens,  she  will  lose  it  all; 
for  if  she  loses  her  power  of  singing  she  will  lose  all 
hold  she  ever  had  on  the  beautiful  in  life.  When  she 
has  lost  that,  she  will  realise  what  it  was,  and  the  life 
that  will  be  left  to  her  will  not  be  good.  She  maintains 
that  she  is  badly  treated,  that  the  opera  people  in 
Paris  have  behaved  disgracefully,  that  even  the  managers 
in  England  are  beginning  to  conspire  against  her.  It  is, 
of  course,  untrue.  You  have  seen,  perhaps,  that  she  is 
sometimes,  lately  more  often,  indisposed  and  cannot 
sing?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  beginning  to  see  the  thing  as 
serious. 

"You  know  that  sort  of  indisposition,  Dick,"  Massing- 
dale continued.  "  You  know  what  it  means.  The  thing 
has  been  going  on  for  some  time,  and,  in  a  singer,  the 
end  will  come  quickly.  When  I  saw  her  a  week  ago, 
and  when  I  saw  her  yesterday,  in  the  afternoon,  before 
she  had  to  sing,  she  was  not  sober.  No  human  voice 
can  stand  it." 

I  kept  silence,  trying  to  find  something,  not  alto- 
gether banal,  that  I  might  say.  Meanwhile  Massingdale 
stared  out  over  the  river,  seeing  nothing,  I  fancy,  of  the 


78  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

Thames.  Quite  suddenly  he  stood  up  straight,  and 
began  speaking  very  fast,  his  words  tumbling  from  him 
as  they  do  when  he  is  excited,  his  hands  making  many 
expressive  gestures;  yet  he  did  not  raise  his  voice. 

"Any  man  who  knows  her  as  I  know  her,"  he  cried, 
"would  be  a  blackguard  to  let  the  thing  happen  without 
some  attempt  to  stop  it.  Yet  what  can  I  do?  She 
knows  me  as  a  sort  of  child  to  whom  she  has  taught 
the  most  of  that  which  he  knows  of  women — or  knew 
until  a  little  while  ago.  She  knows  that  I  do  not  see 
as  she  does,  that  many  of  my  ideas  she  cannot  under- 
stand, therefore  she  laughs  at  me  when  I  presume  to 
give  advice.  Yet  she  wanders  on  to  her  ruin,  and  a 
schoolboy  could  see  the  danger  which  she  ignores. 
Some  years  ago  in  Paris,  just  before  I  came  to  Cambridge, 
she  did  much  for  me,  and  in  her  foolish,  laughing  way 
taught  me  things  that  it  is  good  to  know;  since  then  she 
has  encouraged  me  when  she  thought  I  needed  it;  has 
borne  with  me  when  I  have  been  at  war  with  all  things ; 
has  often  shown  me  where  I  was  a  fool.  Beneath  the 
actress,  who  plays  a  fool  part  for  the  smiles  of  men,  there 
is  a  woman,  no  wiser,  no  better  than  the  rest  of  us,  but 
surely  just  as  good.  Sooner  or  later  there  will  be  a 
public  scene,  a  breakdown  that  cannot  be  hushed  up, 
and  even  her  name  will  fail  to  secure  her  more  engage- 
ments. Then?  She  has  no  money;  she  spends  all  that 
she  earns.  No  one  will  pay  much  attention  to  Yvonne 
Carrel  when  her  voice  no  longer  lures  the  listener  to  a 
golden  land.  And,  through  the  future,  through  the 
years  that  may  still  be  for  her,  she  will  never  forget 
what  she  has  been,  she  will  not  lose  sight  of  the  thing 
which  she  has  lost.  To  kill  her  before  the  end  comes,  to 
make  her  die  while  her  voice  still  holds  its  magic,  would 
be  a  kindness." 


An  Act  of  Friendship  79 

I  had  rarely  seen  him  so  much  in  earnest,  so  captured 
by  sadness  and  perplexity ;  he  had  much  of  the  same  ap- 
pearance that  he  had  shown,  at  times,  before  his  engage- 
ment to  Joan,  with  something  more  of  sorrow  added. 

"Are  you  sure  that  you  don't  make  the  case  more 
gloomy  than  it  is?"  I  asked,  having  not  much  hope  that 
he  did.  "  Surely  it  can  be  stopped  before  it  makes  for 
ruin." 

"  Many  things  might  happen,"  he  answered  me,  "  that 
amongst  them;  but  how  it  is  to  come  about  the  high 
gods  have  not  informed  me.  Am  I  to  go  to  Yvonne  and 
tell  her  that  she  is  drinking  disaster,  and  that  she 
must  reform  her  ways?  If  you  were  my  age,  if  you  were 
in  my  place  that  is  to  say,  would  you  do  it?  And,  if 
you  did  it,  would  you  achieve  any  result?" 

"But,"  I  argued,  evading  the  question,  "she  surely 
has  older  friends  who  could  do  something?" 

"Older  friends!"  cried  Massingdale,  with  a  sudden 
show  of  bitterness.  "She  has  such  friends  as  a  woman 
who  leads  her  life  can  make — men  who,  some  of  them 
grey-haired,  take  her  as  she  is,  and  who,  if  she  ceases 
to  amuse  them,  will  leave  her  for  some  one  else.  Loissel 
would  help  her,  if  she  would  let  him,  but  she  will  not. 
She  finishes  her  engagement  on  Saturday,  and  will 
probably  return  to  Paris."  He  finished  his  sentence 
abruptly,  and  stood  staring  in  front  of  him,  his  hands 
clasped  on  the  balustrade;  when  he  spoke  again,  his 
tone  indicated  that  the  subject  was  closed.  "If,"  said 
he,  "we  could  only  see  one  clear  patch  of  road  ahead, 
we  might  make  something  more  out  of  this  journey  of 
our  lives.  Shall  we  come  on  ?  " 

I  knew  Massingdale  sufficiently  well  not  to  attempt 
to  reopen  the  discussion,  so  I  walked  by  his  side  in  silence 
until  we  got  to  Westminster  Bridge.  When  we  arrived 


8o  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

there,  he  suggested  that  we  should  go  on  to  Chelsea,  and 
so  fill  up  the  time  until  dinner,  to  which  thing  I  agreed. 
We  had  scarcely  got  past  the  Houses  of  Parliament  before 
he  began  talking  at  random,  but  with  his  usual  vivacity, 
on  any  subject  that  came  into  his  head,  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening  he  kept  up  an  almost  ceaseless  flow  of 
talk.  Such,  I  had  discovered  long  before,  was  his  habit 
when  something  had  upset  him;  he  would  endeavour, 
generally,  I  will  admit,  with  much  success,  to  cover  his 
thoughts,  or  to  stop  them,  by  great  volubility.  By 
the  time  that  we  had  finished  dinner,  he  was  to  all 
appearance  in  his  ordinary  temper  of  impressionable 
carelessness,  and  when  we  had  spent  an  hour  or  more  in  a 
music-hall,  and  had  found  the  entertainment  dull,  it 
would  have  been  a  hard  matter  to  persuade  a  stranger 
that  Massingdale  was  other  than  an  amused  and  sym- 
pathetic spectator  of  the  antics  of  his  fellows,  one  who 
had  performed  little  on  his  own  account. 

Somewhere  around  midnight  we  found  ourselves  in 
Piccadilly  Circus,  making  for  one  of  the  substitutes 
for  the  Continental  cafe  which  London  has  to  offer, 
the  particular  place  to  which  we  walked  having  an 
entrance  in  Regent  Street,  and  being  nearby  to  an  ex- 
pensive and  highly  respectable  restaurant.  As  we 
came  up  to  the  door  of  our  cafe,  we  had  to  stand  aside 
to  let  a  fashionably  dressed  woman  pass  out.  I  am 
extremely  unobservant  in  such  matters,  and  often 
fail  to  recognise  my  acquaintances,  so  that  until  Massing- 
dale took  off  his  hat  I  did  not  notice  that  the  woman 
who  stood  by  us  was  Yvonne  Carrel.  She  was  standing 
facing  Massingdale,  and  smiling,  and  it  was  perfectly 
obvious  that  she  had  no  great  control  of  herself;  she 
provided  an  undeniable  confirmation  of  Massingdale's 
talk  of  the  afternoon. 


An  Act  of  Friendship  81 

"Ah!  le  petit  Louis!"  she  cried,  raising  her  voice 
more  than  is  usual  in  a  public  thoroughfare.  "  Viens, 
mon  cheri.  You  come  to  supper  with  me?" 

I  saw  that  one  or  two  of  the  people  passing  turned 
to  look  at  us,  and  I  noticed  that  a  party  leaving  the 
adjoining  restaurant  had  noticed  the  greeting,  and  paid 
us  some  attention  as  they  waited  for  their  carriage.  I 
began  to  be  exceedingly  uncomfortable. 

Massingdale  spoke  to  her  in  his  easy,  laughing  fashion, 
but  I  fancied  him  somewhat  anxious  about  her  behaviour. 

"Certainly,  if  you  wish  me,  Yvonne, "  said  he.  "Shall 
I  call  a  cab?"  And  he  signalled  to  a  passing  hansom. 

What  miserable  fancy  entered  into  her  muddled  brain, 
I  do  not  know,  but  Mademoiselle  Carrel  seized  the  occa- 
sion to  make  an  unwonted  claim  upon  his  affection. 

"It  is  good,"  she  went  on,  in  the  same  high  voice,  so 
that  there  were  now  two  or  three  loiterers,  besides  the 
party  at  the  door  of  the  restaurant,  staring  at  us. 
"You  do  not  altogether  forget  your  old  friends." 
Then  suddenly,  though  in  a  lower  voice:  "Kiss  me, 
Louis." 

Massingdale  was  curiously  white,  but  he  did  not  seem 
to  hesitate,  he  allowed  no  chance  of  the  scene  becoming 
more  noticeable  than  it  already  was.  He  stooped  and 
kissed  her  on  the  cheek,  leading  her  to  the  cab  that 
waited.  He  then  gave  her  address  to  the  cabman,  and, 
getting  in  beside  her,  was  driven  off. 

I  turned  away  up  Regent  Street,  the  amusement  of 
the  witnesses  of  this  episode  causing  me  to  think  grate- 
fully of  physical  violence.  To  them  the  affair  was  a  not 
uncommon  occurrence,  and,  doubtless,  they  could  not  be 
expected  to  see  any  unusual  feature,  yet  I  was  persuaded 
that,  had  any  of  the  spectators  found  themselves  in 
Massingdale's  place,  they  would  have  hesitated,  as  I 

6 


82  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

should  have,  to  do  what  he  had  done,  they  would  have 
allowed  Mademoiselle  Carrel  to  make  a  greater  exhibi- 
tion of  herself  rather  than  put  themselves  in  a  foolish 
position. 

As  I  passed  the  restaurant,  hoping  that  no  one  had 
recognised  the  players  in  this  comedy,  I  discovered 
that  Magram-Coke  was  of  the  party  who  waited  for 
their  carriage.  He  had  assumed  an  expression  of  pious 
indignation  in  which  there  was  a  nice  admixture  of 
sadness,  and  his  eyes  met  mine  as  I  passed.  I  did  not, 
however,  think  the  occasion  was  one  on  which  recogni- 
tion would  be  advisable,  and  he  made  no  attempt  to 
greet  me,  so  I  hurried  on. 

Massingdale  would  return  to  the  Temple,  I  imagined, 
after  getting  Mademoiselle  Carrel  to  her  rooms;  there- 
fore, when  I  had  allowed  sufficient  time  for  Magram- 
Coke  to  drive  off  with  his  companions,  I  went  back  to 
the  cafe,  and,  after  half  an  hour  or  so,  to  Brick  Court. 

Shortly  before  two  o'clock  Massingdale  came  in;  he 
looked  tired  and  upset,  but  he  avoided  any  discussion 
of  the  evening's  happenings,  beyond  a  single  reference 
to  the  matter. 

"Some  attractive  example  of  chivalry  had  met  her  at 
the  theatre,"  he  stated,  helping  himself  to  whisky,  "and 
had  been  drinking  with  her;  doubtless,  this  pleasant 
gentleman  wished  to  spare  her,  and  himself,  the  hurt 
of  scandal,  and  so  avoided  seeing  her  home. " 

"Magram-Coke  witnessed  the  episode,"  I  announced, 
watching  Massingdale. 

"The  devil  he  did,"  he  replied  showing  no  particular 
interest;  and  he  sat  down  on  my  sofa.  "I  hope  the 
righteous  person  benefited  by  what  he  saw,  which  is 
unlikely.  May  I  be  permitted  to  suggest  that  my  host, 
should  he  be  so  disposed,  retires  to  bed?  I  will  smoke  a 


An  Act  of  Friendship  83 

pipe  and  meditate,  whilst  reclining  on  the  sofa,  upon 
the  complexity  of  human  affairs." 

Having  said  this,  Massingdale  had  delivered  an 
ultimatum.  I  had  the  choice  of  going  to  bed,  and  the 
hour  was  not  unreasonable  for  such  a  proceeding,  or  of 
sitting  in  talk  with  him  until  I  fell  asleep  in  my  chair, 
when  all  subjects  under  heaven  might  be  discussed 
except  the  affairs  of  Mademoiselle  Yvonne  Carrel. 
Being  remarkably  tired,  I  chose  the  former  alternative, 
and  left  him  in  a  meditative  condition  upon  his  back. 

I  was  very  busy  the  following  morning,  and,  when 
I  got  back  to  my  rooms  after  lunch,  found  that  Massing- 
dale had  gone  down  to  Elsingham  for  the  week-end, 
which,  it  being  Saturday,  was  his  usual  custom.  On 
Sunday  evening  I  had  to  dine  with  some  relatives  in 
Kensington,  and  for  the  space  of  two  hours  and  a  half 
was  compelled  to  assume  an  air  of  entertainment  amongst 
people  with  whom  I  neither  had,  nor  wished  to  have,  any 
common  interests;  when  I  had  listened  for  as  short  a 
time  as  decency  permitted  to  the  talk  in  the  drawing- 
room,  which  was  mainly  concerned  with  dances  and  the 
latest  musical  comedy,  I  made  my  escape,  and  got  back 
to  the  Temple.  There  I  found  Massingdale  pacing  up 
and  down  my  sitting-room. 

In  the  light  of  a  single  candle — for  of  his  own  wish 
he  would  always  pass  the  evening  in  partial  darkness — 
his  appearance  startled  me;  his  hair  was  in  its  wildest 
condition,  he  seemed  incapable  of  remaining  still,  and 
his  face  showed  signs  of  some  strong  emotion.  I  imagine 
that  I  betrayed  some  indication  of  my  astonishment  at 
his  appearance,  for  he  greeted  me  as  I  entered  with  a 
very  feeble  imitation  of  his  ordinary  manner;  it  was 
quite  plain  that  he  wished  to  steer  the  conversation  by 
himself. 


84  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"The  reveller  returns, "  said  he,  stopping  in  the  middle 
of  the  room. 

"And  the  lover  leaves  his  mistress,"  I  returned,  and 
was  surprised  to  see  him  start.  "What  makes  you 
turn  up  to-night?  I  did  not  expect  you  until  to-morrow 
evening." 

He  started  pacing  the  room  again,  but  did  not  reply 
at  once.  It  was  clear  beyond  a  doubt  that  something 
had  gone  badly  wrong,  and  I  waited  impatiently  to  hear 
what  it  was. 

"  I  thought  it  advisable  to  return  at  once, "  he  answered 
after  a  pause,  making  use  of  a  precise,  expressionless 
tone  that  was  new  to  me.  "I  leave  for  Paris  to-morrow 
afternoon  by  the  two-twenty." 

"What  the  devil  are  you  going  to  Paris  for?"  I  asked, 
putting  down  my  coat  and  hat,  and  standing  in  front 
of  the  hearth. 

Massingdale  turned  at  the  window,  and  faced  me; 
and  his  voice  was  very  distinct  as  he  answered. 

"To  paint." 

"To  paint?"  I  gasped;  but  he  took  no  notice  of  me, 
and  began  his  restless  walking  again. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  speaking  fast,  but  letting  his 
words  come  from  him  in  jerks,  as  if  he  dared  not  emphasise 
them.  "I  am  going  back  to  Loissel  like  a  damned  prodi- 
gal who  has  failed  in  other  things.  I  have  failed  in  other 
things.  I  have  played  my  stake  and  lost  it.  I  thought 
that  I  knew  what  the  risks  were,  I  thought  that  I  saw 
my  way.  I  was  mistaken.  Fate  laughs  at  fools,  Dick, 
especially  when  they  are  self-satisfied  fools.  I  made  the 
great  mistake  of  thinking  that  others,  who  knew  me, 
would  have  realised  the  way  that  I  see  things.  They  do 
not.  You  said  that  the  lover  leaves  his  mistress.  He 
does  not.  He  is  sent  away. " 


An  Act  of  Friendship  85 

"You  don't  mean  that — "  I  began;  but  he  inter- 
rupted me. 

"I  do,"  he  stated.  "I  mean  that  I  am  no  longer 
engaged  to  Joan  Onnington.  She  tells  me  that  she  has 
been  mistaken,  and  I  agree  with  her,  though  not  in  the 
way  she  means.  Poor  child,  she  thinks  me  a  polished 
blackguard,  a  laughing  scoundrel  who  deceives  her  with 
a  smile.  I  tried  to  alter  her  view,  to  make  her  see  the 
truth — I  failed."  He  paused,  and  then  attempted 
his  usual  manner  with  no  success.  "So,  Richard,  I  '11 
take  me  off  to  Paris,  and  to  painting.  Fortune  and  fame 
shall  come  to  me;  my  pictures  shall  rejoice  a  world 
unborn;  and — many  other  things  that  I  can't  think  of 
for  the  moment." 

Under  the  circumstances,  I  decided  that  it  was  better 
to  keep  him  to  his  new  manner;  it  was  easier  to  meet. 

"Feel  inclined  to  give  me  any  details?"  I  asked 
abruptly,  occupying  myself  with  the  filling  of  a  pipe. 

"If  you  want  them,"  he  agreed,  going  back  to  his 
former  tone,  but  sitting  down  on  the  seat  by  the  open 
window.  "The  trouble  came  through  Magram-Coke:  it 
was  a  product  of  his  pure  mind.  Don't  grunt,  Dick;  he 
is  a  very  interesting  person  in  his  way,  which,  thank 
God,  is  not  ours.  He  counts  the  unhappiness  of  others 
a  thing  of  no  moment,  a  small  matter  to  be  induced 
instantly,  if  it  helps  to  advertise  his  pose;  to  secure  an 
effectual  setting  for  his  chosen  attitude  of  righteous- 
ness, he  will  forget  many  things,  or  will  not  heed  them ; 
a  man  of  single  purpose.  He  called  at  Elsingham 
Hall  yesterday  afternoon;  he  came  with  a  friend  of  the 
Onningtons'.  He  eyed  me  sadly,  as  if  my  existence 
pained  him.  After  tea  he  expressed  a  desire  to  see 
the  grounds,  and  asked  whether  Joan  and  I  would  show 
them  to  him.  We  began  to  do  so.  When  we  had  got 


86  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

down  to  the  river,  he  stopped  and  sat  down  on  the  seat 
in  the  bay  of  the  yew  hedge,  saying  that  he  wanted  to 
talk.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  I  should  form  the 
subject  of  that  talk.  You  know  the  man's  manner. 
You  know  the  gentle,  humble  voice,  that  grows  sad  at 
the  thought  of  sin.  Helped  by  his  gaiters  and  his  pro- 
fession, he  can  impose  on  a  young  girl,  can  make  her 
think  him  a  good  man.  'Kenneth/  said  he,  'I  want  to 
know  whether  you  have  told  Miss  Onnington  of  what 
happened  on  Friday  night?' 

"'Friday  night?'  I  asked.  I  had  been  thinking  of 
other  things,  Dick,  and  did  not,  for  a  moment,  remember 
what  had  happened. 

"'I  see  that  you  have  not,'  he  went  on,  and  the  man 
assumed  something  of  a  judicial  manner.  'As  that  is 
so — and  it  is  as  I  thought  it  would  be — I  conceive  it 
my  duty,  both  as  an  honourable  man  and  an  humble 
worker  against  evil,  to  tell  her  that  she  has  something 
very  painful  to  learn.' 

"'Will  you,  please,  tell  me  what  you  are  talking 
about?'  Joan  asked  him,  and  her  face  was  flushed  with 
indignation.  '  I ' ' ' 

Here  Massingdale  was  silent,  sitting  without  a  move- 
ment, staring  out  at  the  Court.  When  he  spoke  again 
there  was  no  difference  in  the  quiet,  expressionless  tone 
of  his  voice. 

"I  am  not  used  to  such  scenes,"  he  went  on;  "and 
I  am  not  a  very  self-controlled  person.  I  showed  that 
I  was  getting  angry,  and  I  made  a  movement  to  silence 
Magram-Coke.  Joan,  I  suppose,  thought  that  I  wished 
to  hide  something;  she  turned  suddenly  very  white,  and 
said  nothing  more.  Coke  had  the  air  of  a  man  performing 
a  painful  duty,  but  I  think  that  he  enjoyed  it.  He  spoke 
to  Joan.  'Miss  Onnington,'  he  stated,  'since  Kenneth 


An  Act  of  Friendship  87 

will  not,  I  am  forced  to  inform  you  that  I  saw  him,  last 
Friday  evening,  embrace  a  woman  of  obviously  low 
character,  and  that  he  did  this  thing  about  midnight  in 
the  middle  of  Regent  Street;  that  he  then  returned  with 
her  to  her  lodging.  I  thought  it  better  to  inform  you, 
rather  than  Admiral  Onnington,  of  this  disgraceful 
occurrence,  because  it  is  you — I  will  not  dwell  on  his 
own  sin — whom  he  has  chiefly  wronged.'  Then  I  lost 
control  of  myself;  I  do  not  remember  what  I  said,  but 
I  was  very  near  to  assaulting  the  animal.  When  I  had 
finished,  Joan  asked  him  to  go,  and,  contrary  to  his 
usual  custom,  he  went  without  saying  anything  more. 
As  he  disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the  yew  hedge, 
I  turned  to  Joan;  she  stood  very  straight,  with  her 
hands  clenched  at  her  sides;  she  did  not  look  at  me." 

Massingdale  again  fell  silent;  and  before  going  on 
with  his  tale  got  up  from  the  window-seat  to  resume 
his  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 

"It  is  not  necessary  to  repeat  what  we  said,"  he 
continued  presently;  "the  result  is  all  that  you  will 
want  to  know.  She  asked  me — and  I  have  a  fancy, 
Dick,  that  she  had  condemned  me  before  I  began  to 
reply — to  what  Magram-Coke  had  referred.  I  told  her; 
I  explained  that  I  had  been  afraid  that  there  might 
have  been  a  worse  scene,  and  that  Yvonne's  condition 
would  have  been  mentioned  in  the  papers.  She  asked 
me,  without  any  comment,  how  long  I  had  known  Yvonne. 
I  explained  that  she  was  an  old  friend  of  mine.  Then, 
quite  suddenly,  Joan  turned  on  me  with  a  manner  of 
suppressed  passion,  demanding  that  I  should  tell  her 
what  I  meant  by  an  'old  friend.'  She  stood  quite  close 
to  me,  looking  me  in  the  eyes,  and  she  repeated  her 
question  with  more  insistence.  I  knew  that  was  the 
end;  I  knew  that  she  could  not  understand  that  things 


88  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

had  changed,  that  I  would  not  sink  to  what  she  thought. 
I  informed  her,  in  the  best  way  that  I  could,  of  what  our 
relations  had  been. "  He  took  a  turn  of  the  room  without 
speaking,  and  then  continued,  his  voice  strained  and  low. 
"She  is  very  young;  she  did  not  mean  what  she  said;  she 
was  blinded  by  the  suggestion  that  Coke  had  given. 
Surely — she  knows  me — I  have  not  the  air  of  a  man  of 
that  sort.  The  past  is  past.  She  would  know  that  there 
are  few  men  who  can  bring  up  a  clean  record — yet, 
because  of  the  past,  to  condemn  the  present  without 
hesitation,  I—  Forgive  me,  Dick,  I  am  forgetting 
you.  She  told  me  to  go — that  is  all. " 

He  sat  down  again  by  the  window,  wearily,  resting  his 
elbow  on  the  sill  and  staring  into  the  night.  I  left  the 
hearth-rug,  and  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room  before 
replying;  yet  when  I  spoke  I  had  little  enough  to  say. 

"You  are  quite  certain  that  you  don't  exaggerate 
things?"  I  asked  with  diffidence.  "You  are  not  mis- 
taking a  passing  storm  for  something  more  serious?" 

He  answered  me  without  turning  his  head. 

"Absolutely  certain." 

Since  he  said  nothing  more,  I  tried  to  argue  the 
matter,  more  for  my  own  satisfaction  than  for  the  help 
that  it  might  give  him. 

"But,  confound  it  all,"  I  cried,  "Joan  is  not  an 
absolute  fool.  She  must  be  willing  to  listen  to  reason; 
she  can't  turn  you  off  as  if  the  matter  were  of  small 
importance.  It 's  damned  ridiculous." 

Massingdale  got  up  from  his  seat  and  came  over  to 
where  I  stood;  putting  his  hands  on  my  shoulders,  he 
pushed  me  into  an  arm-chair.  Something  seemed  to 
have  given  him  more  command  upon  himself  than  he 
had  had  throughout  the  evening. 

"Peace,  you  old  fool,"  he  ordered,  making  something 


An  Act  of  Friendship  89 

more  of  a  success  of  his  usual  manner.  "It  is  not  an 
affair  of  reason.  You  cannot  alter  the  decision  of  the 
gods — I  wish  you  could.  If  a  man  cannot  make  himself 
understood,  he  should  not  complain  that  others  mistake 
his  actions.  When  Joan  asked  me  for  an  explanation 
of  my  friendship  with  Yvonne,  I  should  have  given  her 
something  that  would  have  helped  her  to  my  seeing; 
instead,  beyond  certain  statements,  I  was  mightily 
occupied  with  assuring  her  that  I  could  not  have  done 
anything  but  the  thing  I  did.  Sometimes,  doubtless,  it  is 
advisable  to  adopt  another's  outlook.  However,  the 
thing  is  finished." 

"  Did  you  talk  to  Admiral  Onnington?"  I  asked. 

"I  told  him  that  Joan  had  altered  her  mind,  as  she 
considered  that  I  had  not  acted  honourably;  that  I 
would,  therefore,  go  away.  That  was  the  right  thing 
to  do,  was  n't  it?" 

I  told  him  that  I  imagined  so;  and  he  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  table,  filling  a  pipe.  His  face,  in  the  light  of  the 
match,  showed  haggard  and  tired,  but  he  seemed  to 
have  himself  under  good  control. 

We  both  smoked  in  silence  for  some  time,  and  I  was 
not  able  to  discover  from  his  expression  anything  of 
the  thoughts  which  held  him.  For  my  own  part,  I 
indulged  in  the  futile  business  of  condemning  the  hap- 
penings of  the  past,  endeavouring,  without  success,  to 
discover  how  they  might  be  robbed  of  their  result. 

Massingdale  broke  the  silence  with  a  remark  that 
I  had  not  in  the  least  expected. 

"I  have,"  he  announced,  "about  one  hundred  and 
eighty  pounds  in  the  bank,  the  balance  of  the  coming 
half-year's  allowance,  and  some  odd  cash  about  me. 
I  shall  not  return  that  to  my  father;  however  he  may 
take  this  business,  I  do  not  imagine  that  he  would 


90  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

wish  to  take  back  what  he  has  already  given.  I  shall 
want  it  badly  enough. " 

"  You  are  not  serious  about  going  to  Paris? "  I  askea, 
prepared  for  argument.  "You  have  a  very  decent 
chance  at  the  Bar,  why  throw  it  up?" 

For  the  first  time  that  evening  he  showed  some  of 
his  old  energy  and  excitement. 

"Thunder  of  heaven!"  he  shouted,  beating  the  table 
with  his  fist,  "what  have  I  to  do  with  the  Bar?  Was 
it  ever  anything  but  cowardice  that  induced  me  to 
wear  a  wig  and  gown?  Fate  has  surely  told  me  with 
sufficient  clearness  where  my  destiny  may  be." 

I  did  not  attempt  to  dissuade  him;  I  should  have 
gained  nothing  by  it,  except  the  conviction  that  I  had 
indulged  in  useless  interference.  Instead,  I  began  to 
discuss  the  practical  details  of  his  leaving  the  Temple; 
and,  although  I  had  much  to  say  on  my  side,  I  failed 
to  move  him  from  his  intention  of  going  the  next  day. 
When  we  had  decided  on  the  arrangements  required 
for  storing  his  furniture,  selling  some  of  it,  and  other 
matters  of  a  like  nature,  he  made  mention  of  what 
I  have  always  regarded  as  a  piece  of  the  purest 

felly. 

"I  shall  go  and  see  Yvonne  later  on  this  morning," 
said  he,  sitting  back  from  the  table  at  which  he  had  been 
writing,  "and  I  shall  try  to  persuade  her  to  come  to 
Paris  with  me.  I  think  she  will  agree  to  it. " 

"Good  Lord,  man,"  I  cried  in  astonishment,  "you 
can't  be  such  a  fool!" 

"Why  a  fool?"  he  asked,  taking  no  notice  of  my 
tone.  "If  she  should  come  with  me,  I  shall  be  able  to 
get  Loissel  on  her  tracks,  and  the  old  man  may  work 
some  magic." 

"You  are  not  a  child,  Massingdale, "  I  urged;  "you 


An  Act  of  Friendship  91 

must  see  that,  if  you  go  off  with  her  to-morrow,  few 
people  will  believe  she  is  not  still  your  mistress. " 

"Not  more  than  one  or  two,  certainly,"  he  allowed, 
quite  unmoved. 

"And  there  will  be  strong  evidence  to  force  people 
into  the  belief  that  you  have  behaved  like  a  scoundrel 
to  Joan." 

"Since  she  believes  that  now,  without  the  evidence, 
I  do  not  concern  myself  with  what  others  may  think 
later,"  he  answered,  with  something  of  finality  in  his 
tone. 

But  I  was  not  willing  to  let  him  embark  on  this  absurd 
folly  without  further  protest,  so  I  attacked  him  again. 

"  No  man  can  afford  to  throw  away  his  reputation  for  a 
whim,"  I  insisted.  "It  is  not  a  little  matter  to  be  held 
a  blackguard  by  decent  men.  When  it  comes  to  acting 
in  this  fashion  for  no  real  purpose,  it  is  nothing  else 
than  idiotic  folly. " 

He  tilted  his  chair  back,  and  looked  at  me  in  very 
kindly  fashion,  yet  there  was  no  sign  about  him  that 
my  words  had  had  any  effect. 

" Mon  Richard,"  said  he,  and  there  was  much  deter- 
mination in  his  voice,  "we  waste  our  breath.  Yet  I  owe 
you  some  explanation.  Take  it,  and  be  content.  Do  not 
imagine  me  the  type  of  fool  who  will  indulge  in  quixotic 
action  because  he  thinks  the  pose  becoming.  If  I 
thought  that  there  was  the  slightest,  the  very  smallest, 
chance  that  Joan  would  alter  her  view,  I  should  not  do 
this,  I  should  be  afraid  of  the  consequence ;  but  I  have 
heard  her  speak  to  me,  and  I  do  not  think  that  she  will 
see  the  other  side.  When  she  is  grown  up,  when  she 
sees  things  more  as  they  really  are,  she  will  have  for- 
gotten the  charm  that  I  once  had  for  her.  Therefore,  I 
have  nothing  to  fear  on  her  account.  On  the  other  hand,, 


92  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

Yvonne  is  so  far  gone  that  something  must  be  done 
immediately,  if  anything  is  to  come  of  it;  and  she  will 
do  nothing  of  her  own  will.  Having,  I  believe,  some 
influence  with  her,  I  can  get  her  back  to  Paris;  there  I 
put  the  matter  into  other  hands.  About  my  reputation 
you  are  somewhat  misinformed;  it  is  gone,  or  will  be 
shortly,  without  this.  All  my  acquaintances  will  accept 
the  scandal  with  avidity;  the  thing  will  be  so  pleasing 
to  them  that,  whether  I  go  off  with  my  supposed  mistress 
or  not,  they  will  not  refuse  belief  in  it.  My  departure 
with  Yvonne  may  turn  from  me  a  few  waverers,  they 
do  not  count;  you  and  my  other  friends,  Loissel  and,  I 
fancy,  Tom  Onnington,  will  not  be  affected.  Therefore 
a  prudence  that  hesitated,  in  such  a  case,  at  an  action 
which  might  turn  out  of  some  use,  would  surely  be 
misplaced." 

"I  suppose,"  I  told  him,  when  he  had  finished  speak- 
ing, "that  you  will  go  off  with  Yvonne  Carrel,  but  you 
have  not  convinced  me  that  you  are  not  a  fool  for  doing 
so." 

He  gave  a  curious  laugh,  and  walked  to  the  window. 

"Ah!"  he  called,  looking  out,  "this  is  a  nice  return 
for  much  forbearance.  I  have  robbed  you  of  your 
night's  sleep,  Dick.  Here  is  the  dawn." 

I  went  and  stood  beside  him  at  the  window,  and 
looked  out  into  the  Court.  A  pale  light  had  come  after 
the  darkness,  and  the  old  buildings  looked  grey,  and 
cold,  and  cheerless,  although  the  summer  night  was 
warm;  I  shivered  in  sympathy  with  the  hour,  and  real- 
ised that  I  was  very  tired.  Massingdale  stood  beside 
me  without  movement,  his  face  showing  a  weariness 
that  matched  the  lingering  shadow  out  of  doors. 

"Wherein  lies  the  sadness  of  this  hour  before  the 
sunrise?"  he  murmured,  forgetting,  I  fancy,  that  I  stood 


An  Act  of  Friendship  93 

by  him.  "It  is  not  the  half-light,  for  the  evening  misses 
it.  A  man  should  have  his  dreams  before  the  sun 
comes,  to  help  him  in  the  day,  he  should  not  be  awake; 
at  sunset  he  has  had  some  hours  of  action  to  give  him 
courage  for  his  thoughts,  and  that  means  much." 

I  moved,  and  he  turned  with  a  start. 

"Go  to  bed,  Dick,"  said  he.  "I  '11  sit  here  a  bit,  and 
you  shall  provide  me  with  breakfast." 

So  I  turned  in,  and  slept,  leaving  him  at  the  window. 

The  following  afternoon  I  saw  him  depart,  in  company 
with  Yvonne  Carrel,  by  the  two-twenty  train  for  Paris; 
and  he  seemed  particularly  careful  that  I  should  not 
speak  to  her  alone.  Except  for  his  appearance,  which 
suggested  illness  or  debauchery,  he  offered  a  very  praise- 
worthy imitation  of  his  ordinary  self,  and  poured  forth 
a  steady  stream  of  talk  until  the  train  steamed  out  of 
the  station. 

As  I  left  Charing  Cross  and  walked  back  along  the 
Strand,  I  began  to  realise  the  difference  that  his  absence 
would  make  to  me;  and  before  I  reached  the  Temple  I 
was  cursing  Magram-Coke  and  Joan  with  an  impartial 
vigour. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SHOWING  DIFFERENT  SIDES  TO  THE   SAME   QUESTION 

THAT  same  evening  Admiral  Onnington  paid  me  a 
visit,  as  I  sat  smoking  after  dinner;  he  seemed 
moved  from  his  usual  hearty  cheeriness ;  affected  a  seri- 
ous manner  that  became  him  very  ill;  and  plunged  into 
the  affairs  of  Joan  and  Massingdale  at  once. 

"What's  this  last  thing  I  hear?"  he  asked,  letting 
himself  drop  into  an  arm-chair  with  a  sigh,  for  he  was  a 
man  of  heavy  build.  "Just  pass  the  brandy  to  me,  my 
boy;  you  have  n't  learned  how  to  mix  a  drink  yet.  But 
what  is  this  about  Kenneth  Massingdale  going  off  to 
Paris  with  this  singing  woman?  I  heard  it  from  Wrant 
this  afternoon  at  the  club,  and  he  is  a  man  I  trust.  Is 
it  true?" 

"Massingdale  went  by  the  same  train,  and  in  the 
same  carriage  as  Mademoiselle  Carrel,  if  that  is  what 
you  mean,"  I  answered,  making  the  best  that  I  could 
of  it. 

"It  is,  thank  you,"  replied  my  uncle,  with  decision. 
"It  is  a  good  bit  more  than  I  want."  He  puffed  at 
his  cigar  in  silence,  frowning  fiercely;  then  went  on 
speaking  with  a  deal  more  of  confidence.  "I  '11  be  shot, 
if  I  can  make  it  out,"  he  announced.  "I  thought  that, 
after  knocking  about  the  world  for  sixty  years,  I  had 
learned  to  judge  something  of  a  man's  character;  enough, 

94 


Different  Sides  to  a  Question         95 

at  any  rate,  to  go  by.  I  would  have  sworn  that  young 
Massingdale  was  as  honourable  a  man  as  his  father,  and 
here  he  turns  out  an  absolute  blackguard,  and  plays  the 
devil  with  my  daughter's  feelings.  What  have  you  to 
say  to  it  yourself,  Dick?" 

"I  think,"  I  suggested,  "that  you  seem  too  ready 
to  condemn  the  man  unheard.  Why  jump  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  must  be  guilty?  " 

"That 's  not  fair,  my  boy,  that 's  not  fair, "  the  Admiral 
answered  impatiently.  "I  have  done  nothing  of  the 
sort;  I  have  done  the  opposite.  Last  night  when  he 
knocked  the  breath  out  of  me  by  saying  that  Joan  had 
done  with  him,  I  neither  condemned  him  nor  thought 
of  doing  so.  I  only  let  him  rush  off  in  that  fashion 
because  I  thought  that,  being  a  queer,  excitable  fellow, 
it  would  do  him  good  to  be  alone.  I  listened  to  what 
Joan  had  to  say — which  was  damned  little — and  could 
not  make  head  or  tail  of  it,  except  that  he  had  behaved 
disgracefully  with  some  singing  woman.  I  distrusted 
the  whole  business,  because  that  insufferable  hypocrite 
of  a  parson  had  been  in  it,  and  I  said  as  little  as  I  could. 
This  morning  I  went  into  Cambridge  and  interviewed 
this  precious  bishop.  I  had  the  whole  story  from  him, 
chapter  and  verse,  with  a  lot  of  pious  nonsense  thrown 
in  as  well;  and  he  swore  to  the  whole  lot  of  it.  I  told 
him,  pretty  plainly,  what  I  thought  of  him  for  not  coming 
to  me  first ;  and  then  I  came  up  to  town  to  try  and  find 
young  Massingdale  himself.  I  thought  the  disgraceful 
business  must  have  some  explanation;  I  have  never  yet 
condemned  any  man  without  full  evidence  of  his  guilt, 
and  I  hope  I  never  shall.  However,  I  came  here  and 
found  no  one  in,  and  so  went  down  to  the  club.  There 
Wrant  told  me,  and  he  did  it  very  nicely  too,  what  he 
had  seen  at  Charing  Cross.  I  am  not  a  fool,  my  boy, 


96  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

and  I  can  put  facts  together,  when  they  are  thrust  under 
my  nose.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  young  Massing- 
dale  has  behaved  like  an  infernal  scoundrel. " 

"There  can  be,  and  there  is,"  I  urged,  "very  con- 
siderable doubt.  The  whole  thing  is  a  mistake.  Massing- 
dale  has  done  nothing  that  is  dishonourable.  The  tale 
that  Magram-Coke  concocted  about  the  affair  in  Regent 
Street  the  other  night  is  sheer  misrepresentation; 
Massingdale  did  what  he  did  in  order  to  prevent  a  scene. " 

"I  know  all  about  that,"  Admiral  Onnington  inter- 
rupted. "Your  aunt  has  told  me  all  that;  it  was,  it 
seems,  the  excuse  which  the  fellow  offered  to  Joan. 
But,  frankly,  Dick,  do  you  expect  me  to  believe  that 
an  ordinary  man  is  in  the  habit  of  kissing  a  well-known 
actress  in  a  public  thoroughfare,  unless  he  is  on  pretty 
intimate  terms  with  her?" 

I  saw  the  case  going  against  Massingdale,  as  I  had 
expected  that  it  would,  so  I  put  my  defence  with  all 
the  heat  I  could  muster. 

"Massingdale  is  not  an  ordinary  man,"  I  retorted, 
with  some  anger.  "And  I  am  not  aware  that  he  has 
attempted  to  hide  what  his  relations  have  been  in  the 
past  with  Mademoiselle  Carrel.  I  fail  to  see  why  the 
devil,  because  he  acts  decently  towards  the  woman, 
and  helps  her  out  of  a  hole,  you  should  assume  that  she 
is  still  his  mistress.  Would  you  call  it  the  conduct  of  an 
honourable  man  to  disown  her  acquaintance  because  she 
happened  to  be  intoxicated?" 

Admiral  Onnington  got  up  from  the  arm-chair,  and 
gripped  hold  of  my  left  arm  above  the  elbow;  he  had 
abandoned  his  attempt  to  appear  magisterial,  and 
seemed  to  feel  relief  at  the  change. 

"Look  here,  Dick,  my  boy,"  said  he,  pinching  my 
arm  tightly,  "  I  'm  not  going  to  quarrel  with  you  because 


Different  Sides  to  a  Question         97 

you  stick  to  a  friend.  Defend  young  Massingdale  as 
warmly  as  you  will;  it  will  please  me  to  hear  you.  But 
I  must  recognise  the  truth  about  this  matter.  Joan  is 
my  daughter,  and  I  do  not  feel  inclined  to  think  kindly 
of  a  man  who  has  played  the  very  deuce  with  her  affec- 
tions. Besides,  drop  your  prejudice,  and  tell  me  whether 
you  can  regard  these  two  occurrences,  the  business  in 
the  street  and  the  going  off  to  Paris,  as  anything  but 
conclusive  proof." 

To  state,  baldly,  that  Massingdale  had  taken  Made- 
moiselle Carrel  with  him  to  Paris  in  order  to  affect 
her  reform,  seemed  to  me  useless ;  offered  as  an  explana- 
tion to  any  one  who  did  not  know  him  well,  it  had  the 
appearance  of  a  most  ineffectual  lie.  Therefore,  I  tried 
to  turn  the  matter  aside,  which  was  a  mistake. 

"Mademoiselle  Carrel's  engagement  in  London  was 
finished,"  I  replied,  as  confidently  as  I  could.  "She 
would  have  been  going  back  to  Paris  in  any  case.  I 
cannot  see  that  you  can  make  anything  out  of  that 
coincidence." 

"Steady,  Dick,"  Admiral  Onnington  warned  me, 
giving  my  arm  another  nip;  "you  are  beginning  to  talk 
like  a  lawyer.  Don't  hide  the  facts,  my  boy.  Can  you 
give  me  your  word — I  don't  ask  you  this  because  I 
want  to  hear  you  give  a  friend  away,  but  because  I 
must  have  the  truth.  Remember  I  am  Joan's  father — 
can  you  give  me  your  word  that  it  was  nothing  more 
than  a  coincidence  that  these  two  went  away  together 
this  afternoon?" 

I  had  the  mighty  poor  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
I  had  predicted  the  harm  that  the  departure  referred 
to  would  bring  about,  which  satisfaction  I  would  have 
thrown  in,  in  company  with  a  good  many  things  besides, 
to  have  had  the  question  withdrawn. 


98  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"No,"  I  answered,  "I  cannot;  but—" 

He  stopped  me,  before  I  could  finish  the  sentence; 
and  his  manner  was  so  kindly  that  I  could  not  take 
offence  at  his  words. 

"That  is  all  I  want,"  said  he  sadly.  "That  settles 
the  matter.  I  decline  to  argue  any  more.  I  should 
only  make  you  quarrel,  Dick,  and  I  won't  have  that. 
You  take  your  view;  I  must,  in  duty,  act  on  mine. 
I  wish  young  Massingdale  every  success  in  life ;  I  suppose 
that  he  will  follow  his  taste,  and  go  in  for  painting.  I 
know  that  an  outsider  cannot  reckon  up  all  the  tempta- 
tions that  go  to  a  man's  undoing;  and  I  believe  there 
is  a  lot  of  good  in  the  boy;  but  I  think  that  it  will  be 
better  that  he  and  I  do  not  meet  again.  There  are  some 
things  that  a  father  should  not  forgive." 

"You  make  an  incredible  mistake,"  I  pleaded;  but 
he  stopped  me  again. 

"Don't,"  he  asked,  picking  up  his  hat.  "Let  us 
call  the  subject  ended,  there  's  a  good  fellow.  We  '11 
agree  to  be  silent  about  it.  Come  down  to  Elsingham 
next  week-end;  we  are  a  bit  gloomy,  and  we  want 
visitors.  Besides,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  a  yachting 
cruise  next  month." 

Upon  that  he  left  me.  He  was,  I  have  reason  to 
suppose,  a  very  good  sailor,  but  he  was  a  poor  hand 
at  hiding  his  feelings;  and  it  was  no  difficult  matter  to 
see  that  the  thing  which,  perhaps,  struck  him  hardest 
in  the  whole  business  was  the  loss  of  the  regard  which 
he  had  had  for  Massingdale,  a  feeling  that  had  been 
very  strong  in  him.  For  it  was  characteristic  of  Massing- 
dale to  inspire  very  warm  feelings,  either  of  like  or  dislike, 
in 'those  with  whom  he  came  in  contact;  and,  however 
he  might  be  judged,  the  memory  of  him  was  not  easily 
forgotten. 


Different  Sides  to  a  Question         99 

At  the  end  of  the  week  I  went  down  to  Elsingham, 
and  it  would  be  an  abominable  misrepresentation  to 
say  that  I  enjoyed  the  visit.  The  manner  adopted  by 
the  Onnington  family  was  so  carefully  assumed,  their 
strict  avoiding  of  any  discussion  of  recent  events  was 
so  apparent,  that  the  house  seemed  peopled  by  conscien- 
tious actors,  somewhat  fearful  lest  they  should  forget 
their  parts.  Joan  showed  the  clearest  signs  that  her 
attitude  was  difficult  to  support,  and  I  was  in  continual 
fear  that  she  would  abandon  the  pose  and  invite  me  to 
an  exchange  of  confidence.  I  recognised  that  where 
there  was  so  little  to  be  said,  this  refusal  to  introduce 
the  subject  of  Massingdale  or  his  behaviour  was  certainly 
wise,  but  I  found  the  prevailing  cheerfulness  full  of 
embarrassment,  and  a  most  effective  barrier  against 
careless  conversation.  I  was  mightily  relieved  to  find 
that  the  vicar  and  a  friend  stopping  with  him  had  been 
asked  in  to  dinner  on  the  night  of  my  arrival,  for  we 
played  bridge  until  after  the  women  had  gone  to  bed, 
and  so  escaped  the  chance  of  any  review  of  the  situation. 
The  following  afternoon,  it  being  Sunday,  Joan  suggested 
that  I  should  go  out  for  a  walk  with  her,  and  having 
no  possible  excuse  to  offer,  I  was  forced  to  consent, 
although  I  did  not  fancy  the  prospect. 

We  made  for  the  Roman  Road,  which  passes  within 
a  half-mile  of  the  Hall,  a  broad,  green  cart-track,  little 
used,  running  straight  across  the  landscape,  avoiding 
in  the  present  day  the  neighbourhood  of  any  village; 
a  place  much  overgrown,  and  very  lonely,  serving,  it 
would  seem,  no  useful  purpose  of  a  road,  but  resting 
quietly  in  a  slow  decay.  Here,  even  on  Sunday  after- 
noons, in  summer,  when  complacent  and  unheeding 
couples  cover  the  countryside,  you  will  scarcely  encounter 
a  single  pair  in  the  course  of  an  hour's  walk.  But  it  is  a 


ioo  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

dangerous  path  to  follow  if  you  are  minded  to  shut  out 
the  past,  for  the  air  is  filled  with  memories,  and  the  call 
of  forgotten  days  may  well  serve  a  double  purpose, 
leading  a  man  from  the  long-closed  chapters  of  history 
to  the  more  troubled  memory  of  his  own  yesterday. 

Therefore,  I  was  in  no  doubt  that  Joan  and  I  would 
touch  on  what  had  happened,  but  was  inclined  to 
question  whether  we  should  have  any  profit  of  our  talk. 
After  we  had  walked  a  mile  or  more  along  the  road, 
outwardly  engaged  in  a  discussion  of  the  yachting 
cruise  of  which  I  was  to  be  a  member,  Joan  made  the 
suggestion  that  we  should  sit  down  and  rest,  for  the 
day  was  clear  and  hot,  and  there  was  no  wind  stirring. 
We  sat  in  the  shade  of  a  hedge,  facing  across  the  road, 
cornfields  rising  to  a  copse-crowned  hill;  and  I  filled  a 
pipe  in  silence,  waiting  for  Joan  to  open  the  talk. 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  began,  not  looking  at  me, 
but  keeping  her  eyes  on  a  small  pile  of  grass  to  which 
she  added  handfuls,  "that  it  is  rather  foolish  avoiding 
things  in  this  way?  I  want  you  to  answer  me  a  question, 
Dick." 

"Ask  it,"  I  replied,  leaning  back  against  the  bank 
behind  me,  "and  I  will  do  my  best,  when  I  hear  what 
it  is." 

"Did  you — "  she  began,  and  then  hesitated.  "Oh, 
I  don't  know  that  it  will  do  any  good  to  speak  about 
it  at  all. " 

"It  will  probably  do  no  harm,"  I  suggested. 

Since  the  discussion  seemed  inevitable,  I  was  inclined 
to  urge  it  on  and  be  done  with  it;  and  I  fancy  that  Joan 
looked  at  the  matter  in  the  same  way.  She  ceased  to 
tear  up  grass,  but  she  did  not  look  at  me,  and  her  voice, 
when  she  spoke,  was  little  above  a  whisper. 

"How   long   have   you  known,"    she   asked,    "that 


Different  Sides  to  a  Question       101 

Kenneth  was — very  intimate,"  she  seemed  to  stumble 
at  the  phrase,  "with  this  Mademoiselle  Carrel?" 

"Some  years  at  least,"  I  answered.  "She  is  one  of 
his  oldest  friends.  It  is  a  great  pity  that  you  did  not 
meet  her." 

She  flushed,  and  replied  to  me  with  a  sudden  coldness. 

"I  am  thankful  that  he  spared  me  that." 

"I  fail  to  see  why,"  I  told  her. 

"Because  I  am  not  accustomed  to  meet  that  sort 
of  woman,"  she  retorted  with  a  blaze  of  anger,  turning 
to  me  with  a  fine  display  of  indignation;  "because  I 
like  to  think  that  even  he  had  more  respect  for  me 
than  that." 

"You  make  a  great  mistake,"  I  replied,  sitting  up. 
"If  you  had  met  Mademoiselle  Carrel,  if  you  had  seen 
Massingdale  with  her,  you  would  not  have  jumped  to  the 
absurd  conclusions  that  you  have  adopted. " 

Although  she  was  a  girl  not  yet  come  to  more  than 
the  borderland  of  womanhood,  she  already  had  much  of 
a  woman's  way  with  her;  and  she  turned  from  the  point 
at  issue  with  a  perfect  calmness. 

"I  prefer  not  to  discuss  that,"  said  she,  with  an  air  of 
reproof.  "I  only  wished  to  know  how  long  the  thing 
had  been  going  on. " 

Doubtless,  I  should  have  realised  the  futility  of  further 
discussion,  but  when  a  man  has  had  as  little  to  do  with 
women  as  I  had  at  that  time,  he  is  often  led  on  to  argu- 
ment when  he  should,  more  profitably,  keep  silence. 
Being,  therefore,  inexperienced  in  such  encounters,  I 
set  about  Massingdale's  defence. 

"If  that  is  all  you  wish  to  know,"  I  protested,  "the 
subject  is  done  with;  but  I  had  hoped  that  you  would 
be  willing  to  hear  some  other  opinion  than  your  own." 

She  seemed  to  have  made  away  with  her  indignation, 


102  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

and  she  turned  to  me  with  an  expression  so  near  to  tears 
that  I  regarded  my  coming  attack  upon  her  want  of 
insight  with  something  less  of  favour. 

"You  can't  imagine,  Dick,"  she  answered,  in  a  low 
voice,  "that  I  am  unwilling  to  hear  of  anything  that 
might  make  a  difference?" 

I  assured  her  that  I  did  not  imagine  that  she  was 
unwilling;  and  I  began  to  see  that,  perhaps,  she  saw 
the  case  as  black  as  I  saw  it  mistaken  and  unfortunate: 
but  I  called  up  a  vision  of  Massingdale  pacing  my  room 
in  the  candle-light,  and  I  attempted  my  explanation. 

"When  you  promised  to  marry  Massingdale, "  I  began, 
shifting  my  position  so  that  I  could  watch  her  face, 
"you  must  have  understood  that  he  was  a  man  who 
would  do  unusual  things." 

She  raised  her  eyes,  which  for  the  most  part  she  kept 
lowered,  and  stared  at  me  in  surprise. 

"Of  course  I  did,"  she  murmured. 

"You  surely  knew,"  I  continued,  "that  there  must 
have  been  actions  in  his  life,  before  he  met  you,  which 
you  would  not  like,  which  he,  under  the  circumstances, 
would  not  dwell  upon  with  any  pleasure. " 

She  nodded  her  head  in  silence,  without  looking  up, 
and  she  played  nervously  with  the  grass  beside  her. 

"Yet  you  must  have  seen,"  I  urged,  "that  he  was  a 
man  of  honour.  You,  of  all  people,  Joan,  must  have 
learned  that  there  were  certain  things,  this  thing  of 
which  you  believe  him  guilty  amongst  them,  that  under 
no  circumstances  at  all  would  he  ever  do.  In  spite  of 
this,  simply  because  appearances  are  against  him,  you 
condemn  him ;  because  Magram-Coke  comes  to  you  with 
a  tale,  you  will  not  hear  another  word  about  the  matter. " 

"That  is  not  true,  Dick,"  cried  Joan  in  a  choking 
voice.  "  I  did  listen  to  him. " 


Different  Sides  to  a  Question       103 

"And  did  he  hide,"  I  asked,  "what  his  relations  with 
Mademoiselle  Carrel  had  been  in  the  past?  Did  he  lie 
to  you,  Joan?  Did  he  attempt  any  explanation  but 
the  true  one?  " 

There  was  no  answer  to  my  questions.  Joan  sat 
with  her  head  bent,  and  she  had  stopped  playing  with 
the  grass.  Therefore,  I  went  on  with  my  plea. 

"Think  what  sort  of  a  man  you  have  to  deal  with," 
I  insisted.  "  Remember  him  as  he  is,  not  as  the  ordinary 
interpretation  of  his  actions  would  make  him.  Surely 
you  can  see  him  only  as  a  loyal  friend,  a  man  who  would 
not  desert  an  old  acquaintance  because  in  befriending 
her  he  might  be  hurt  himself?  Surely  you,  of  all  people, 
have  sufficient  trust  in  him  to  believe  that  he  did  what 
he  did  because  he  would  not  let  Mademoiselle  Carrel 
ruin  herself,  when  he  might  help  her? " 

I  stopped.  Joan  was  silent  a  moment,  then  she  raised 
her  head  and  looked  at  me ;  and  her  face  was  very  white, 
though  she  spoke  quietly,  and  with  a  certain  finality. 

"No,  Dick,"  she  answered  me,  "I  can't  believe  what 
you  ask  me.  I  can't  believe  that,  if  he  was  only  true 
and  loyal  as  you  say,  he  would  have  waited  until  the 
bishop  forced  him  before  he  spoke  about  it.  He  ought 
to  have  told  me  first,  then  I  should  have  believed  him. " 
She  paused,  and  when  she  continued  it  almost  seemed 
as  if  she  nursed  a  grievance.  "I  am  not  a  child,"  she 
stated;  "I  should  have  understood.  You  talk  as  if 
you  knew  him  better  than  I  do;  yet  I  know  what  he 
is.  He  is  never  really  serious.  He  plays  with  every- 
thing. Anything  that  comes  along  amuses  him.  He 
plays  with  his  painting. " 

"Massingdale  plays  with  his  art?"  I  cried,  interrupt- 
ing her. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  with  a  manner  of  experienced 


104  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

conviction  that  might,  under  other  circumstances,  have 
amused  me.  "He  does  nothing  more  than  play  with 
it;  he  would  not  make  it  his  profession.  But  it  is  the 
same  in  all  things,  Dick,  he  is  not  really  serious  about 
them.  He  works  himself  into  an  excited  condition  over 
all  sorts  of  things,  but  he  does  not  really  care.  He — he 
only  lives  for  the  moment.  I  thought  he  really  cared 
about —  O  Dick,  go  away,  please. " 

Here  her  judgment  on  Massingdale's  character  ceased 
with  some  suddenness;  she  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  and  began  to  sob  in  an  uneasy,  choking 
fashion. 

I  got  up  and  walked  off  some  little  distance  down 
the  road.  When  I  pulled  up,  and  leaned  on  a  gate  to 
review  the  situation,  I  found  that  I  had  left  my  pipe  on 
the  bank  and  that  I  had  not  got  another  in  my  pocket, 
so  that  my  embarrassment  went  without  the  solace  of 
tobacco.  A  rabbit,  seated  just  within  the  shelter  of  a 
crop  of  oats,  about  twenty  yards  from  the  gate,  stared 
at  me  in  a  foolish,  frightened  fashion,  evidently  undecided 
whether  it  should  bolt  or  hold  its  ground;  the  animal 
kept  my  attention  to  the  exclusion  of  other  thoughts, 
until,  glancing  at  the  hedge  in  front  of  it  in  genuine 
panic,  it  hopped  out  of  sight.  Looking  up  the  road,  I 
saw  that  Joan  had  left  the  bank,  and  that  she  came 
towards  me  with  her  sunshade  hiding  the  most  of  her 
face.  As  she  came  near  the  gate,  on  which  I  leaned, 
she  held  out  my  pipe. 

"You  're  a  very  careless  person,  Dick,"  she  told  me, 
in  a  voice  that  was  quite  steady  and  composed.  "You 
left  this  priceless  possession  lying  on  the  bank,  which 
means  that  you  must  have  been  quite  ten  minutes 
without  smoking." 

"I  might  have  had  another  in  my  pocket,"  I  argued, 


Different  Sides  to  a  Question       105 

uncommon  glad  that  we  had  passed  the  occasion  for 
a  further  show  of  feelings. 

"But  you  have  not  got  another,"  she  announced,  as 
if  my  objection  to  her  false  reasoning  had  been  beside 
the  point ;  and  she  handed  me  the  pipe. 

On  our  way  back  to  tea  we  maintained-  a  steady 
conversation  on  subjects  of  no  importance,  being,  I 
fancy,  both  very  anxious  to  prove  that  we  did  not  intend 
to  reopen  the  more  serious  discussion.  I  admired  the 
way  in  which  she  played  her  part,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
evidence  -of  tears  which  her  face  still  bore,  talked  with  a 
manner  of  cheerfulness  excellently  assumed.  As  we 
left  the  road  and  struck  across  the  fields  towards  the 
Hall,  my  distaste  for  Fate's  behaviour  increased  with 
every  sentence  that  Joan  spoke;  to  have  separated  a 
couple  who  had  as  many  excellent  good  points  as  had 
she  and  Massingdale,  seemed  to  me  a  jest  with  singularly 
little  point. 

We  approached  the  front  of  the  house  by  a  stile 
and  a  footpath  across  the  park,  and  Joan  entertained 
me  with  a  description  of  certain  workings  of  the  village 
mind  on  the  subject  of  current  politics;  but  as  I  opened 
the  iron  gate  that  leads  into  the  gardens,  she  stopped, 
and  put  her  hand  upon  my  arm. 

"You  must  not  think,  Dick,"  she  pleaded,  her  voice 
low  and  firm,  and  her  eyes  on  mine,  "that  I  do  not  try 
to  see  the  truth  about  this — this  thing.  But  I  don't 
think  that  it  will  really  do  any  good  talking  about  it — 
at  any  rate,  just  yet." 

Two  things  seemed  very  plain  to  me  as  she  stood 
touching  my  arm:  the  one,  that  a  man  who  had  fallen 
into  love  of  this  girl  would  find  some  difficulty  in  finding 
any  cure  for  his  condition,  and  I  thought  of  Massing- 
dale in  Paris  and  the  misery  of  so  much  misunderstanding; 


io6  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

the  other,  and  this  second  thing  seemed  even  plainer 
than  the  first,  that  this  business  had  set  her  life  a  quicker 
pace,  and  was  bringing  Joan  to  womanhood  with  a 
disquieting  suddenness.  She  was  already  a  long  journey 
from  the  child  that  she  had  been  a  week  before. 

"I  think,"  I  answered  her,  and  I  tried  to  give  to 
my  voice  all  the  expression  that  I  could,  "that  you 
are  right.  Talking  will  do  no  good.  Being  trained  as  a 
lawyer,  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  argue  the 
case,  although  I  was  half  convinced  that  I  should  only 
do  more  harm.  Time  may  right  things,  Joan.  Mean- 
while, the  whole  infernal  business  had  better  be  left 
alone. " 

She  smiled,  sadly  enough,  at  me  when  I  spoke  of 
time  righting  things,  and  turned  away;  and  we  walked 
up  to  the  house  in  silence.  Yet  at  tea,  when  she  had  to 
entertain  some  visitors,  the  most  careful  attention  that 
I  could  give  to  her  discovered  no  flaw  in  her  self-possess- 
ion, and  only  the  faintest  traces  of  the  recent  presence 
of  tears. 

However,  before  I  left  next  morning,  I  was  soundly 
rated  by  my  aunt  for  having  added  to  Joan's  un- 
happiness,  and — the  strict  justice  of  the  censure  caused 
me  no  little  amusement — for  having  made  her  cry. 
Knowing  my  aunt  to  be  an  excellent  woman,  though 
not  at  all  amenable  to  argument,  and  still  less  to  con- 
tradiction, I  suffered  her  charge  in  silence,  and  promised 
that  I  would  not  repeat  the  offence  in  the  future,  which 
promise,  when  I  spoke  it,  was  no  less  than  the  sober 
truth. 

I  found  life  at  the  Temple  without  Massingdale  very 
much  less  amusing  than  I  had  imagined  that  it  could 
be,  and  I  looked  forward  to  the  rising  of  the  Courts, 
and  the  chance  of  getting  away  from  town,  with  con- 


Different  Sides  to  a  Question       107 

siderable  impatience.  I  also  looked  for  a  letter  from  him, 
being  anxious  to  hear  where  he  had  settled,  and  what  he 
did;  but  when  the  communication  came  it  left,  as  I 
think  I  had  expected,  a  vast  deal  unsaid,  and  although 
it  gave  me  a  good  deal  of  information  of  one  sort  and 
another,  it  made  no  statement  at  all  upon  the  recent 
happenings.  I  quote  it  here  in  full;  it  is  very  typical 
of  the  writer,  and  may  well  serve  in  shaping  the  picture 
of  the  man.  It  ran : 

10  RUE  ANTOINETTE  (sixth  floor), 

20  ARRONDT., 
PARIS,  Thursday. 

"Mosx  BELOVED  RICHARD, — To  you  dwelling  in 
exile  and  outer  darkness,  greeting !  How  any  man,  unless 
he  be  possessed  of  the  soul  of  a  rabbit,  can  dwell  for  any 
long  period  of  time  away  from  this  divine  city  passes 
my  understanding.  Why  the  place  is  not  grossly  over- 
crowded, the  inhabitants  being  packed  together  like 
chickens  in  a  coop,  since  all  the  world  of  sane  men  should 
hurry  hither  as  the  flowers  turn  to  the  sun,  is  of  the 
deeper  mysteries.  Seriously,  my  prosaic  and  sober- 
minded  friend,  there  is  something  in  the  very  smell  of 
Paris  which  acts  upon  me  as  some  rare  and  precious 
wine;  I  step  from  the  train,  fill  my  lungs  and  ears  with 
that  which  is  about  me,  and  open  my  eyes  upon  the 
future  and  much  hope. 

"You  knew,  in  long  past  ages,  a  struggling,  ineffectual, 
and  very  foolish  barrister.  He  is  dead.  We  will  not  mourn 
him,  but  wish  his  ashes  a  quiet,  unremembered  sleep.  He 
meant  well  (O  unutterable  condemnation !)  and  achieved 
— a  thousand  follies.  We  will  call  him  to  mind,  but  only 
very  rarely,  with  a  kindly,  indulgent  sigh.  You  shall 
meet — but  not  just  yet — the  writer,  who  is  the  offspring 


io8  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

of  this  same  dead  failure.  An  artist,  my  son — mais  un 
vrai  type,  je  vous  assure — a  man  wholly  set  upon  one 
business,  and  mightily  enamoured  of  success.  You  shall 
visit  him  where  he  dwells  in  Montmartre  (an  outlying 
portion  of  Olympus);  and  you  shall  admire  his  studio, 
and  the  cupboard  of  a  bedroom  which  opens  from  it. 
If  you  stay  with  him,  as  haply  you  will,  you  will  sleep 
upon  a  divan  (kindly  note  the  word,  sir !)  impregnated 
with  the  smell  of  paints  and  stale  tobacco.  And  to  do  all 
of  this  you  will  have  to  climb  six  flights  of  ill-lighted  and 
not  too  cleanly  stairs.  Climb  stairs!  What  in  the  devil's 
name  is  come  to  me  that  I  dwell  on  such  a  trifle?  A  man, 
I  take  it,  must  climb  if  he  wish  to  reach  the  stars,  and  'I, 
mein  werther,  sit  above  it  all;  I  am  alone  with  the  stars.' 
No,  I  am  in  better  case  than  even  the  esteemed  Professor 
Teuf elsdrockh ;  I  am  above  the  stars!  Surely  the  gods 
are  kind  to  me,  man  Richard,  for  from  my  windows  I 
command  a  dual  prospect :  a  gap  left  between  the  build- 
ings to  Parisward  lets  me  look  out  over  the  city;  and 
when  the  dark  is  come  and  the  night  clear,  I  have  the 
earthly  stars  of  Paris  underneath  me,  a  hundred  thousand 
changing  points  of  light  set  in  a  velvet  cushion  of  more 
than  mortal  richness,  and  above,  overhead,  mon  ami,  a 
thousand  worlds  look  down,  smiling,  yet  somewhat 
pitifully  I  fancy,  in  their  cold  pride  and  aloofness,  watch- 
ing in  their  high  state  the  world  and  men's  poor  play. 
Can  you  wonder,  poor  dweller  in  a  wild  barbaric  country, 
that  I  Jean  from  my  window,  blowing  tobacco  to  these 
stars,  and  hold  that,  beyond  any  question,  my  destiny 
has  brought  me  to  a  pleasant  resting-place.  Here, 
somehow,  sometime,  I  shall  learn  to  ply  my  trade,  and 
gain  a  sight  (surely  not  less  than  that !)  of  the  fair  land 
to  which  I  wish  to  go. 

"That  dead  fool  of  a  barrister,  Dick  (God  forgive  me 


Different  Sides  to  a  Question       109 

for  so  speaking  of  the  man  to  whom  I  owe  my  being; 
but  he  was  a  fool !) ,  used  to  think  that  a  man  could  com- 
bine two  trades,  one  of  them  being  painting;  he  used  to 
assure  himself  that  the  painting  would  not  suffer,  and 
that  it  did  not  matter  if  the  law  went  by  the  board;  he 
actually  turned  out  some  pictures  with  a  certain  degree 
of  satisfaction  in  the  result.  I — and  for  this  I  owe  him  my 
best  thanks — profit  by  his  mistakes,  and  realise  that  not 
yet,  nor  for  many  months  to  come,  shall  I  be  in  a  position 
to  fill  a  canvas  with  other  decoration  than  the  studies 
of  the  student.  Another  year  (six  months  perhaps  had 
been  enough)  of  such  fooling  and  my  hand  had  been 
spoiled  for  life,  and  the  polite  tricks  of  a  genteel  accom- 
plishment had  killed,  for  ever,  the  seeds  of  any  real  work. 
Suppose  that  that  last  thing  had  come  about,  that  I 
had  let  the  time  go  by  when  the  painter  in  me  might  be 
trained,  I  do  not  think  that  anything — anything,  my 
friend — would  have  repaid  me  for  the  loss.  '  Dear  Lord ! ' 
says  you,  sitting  at  your  ease  all  surrounded  by  fat  tomes 
anent  the  law  of  England,  'the  young  man  thinks  that 
he  is  in  a  fair  way  to  become  a  famous  painter.  What 
humorous  conceit!'  'All  youth  that  is  ambitious,' 
I  reply  to  you  from  my  dwelling  among  the  stars, 
'  nourishes  a  wise  conceit.  Yet  I  call  you  to  order  on  the 
one  word  "famous";  for  it  I  would  have  you  substitute 
some  other  expression  which  shall  convey  a  greater 
idea  of  merit  and  less  of  notoriety.'  After  which  reply 
I  leave  you  to  your  laughter  undisturbed.  Mon  tr&s 
cher  ami,  I  am  embarking  on  this  business  with  a  full 
cargo  of  high  hopes,  and,  as  any  sane  man  would,  the 
vision  of  success,  not  failure,  before  me. 

"The  journey  from  London  was  scarcely  an  unmixed 
delight.  It  was  most  infernal  hot ;  the  carriages  were  like 
ovens,  and  the  train  was  very  crowded.  Yvonne,  failing 


no  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

to  justify  her  character,  was  much  out  of  temper  with 
the  world,  and,  why  I  do  not  know,  with  the  poor  scribe 
as  well.  She  attempted,  and  again  the  reason  for  her 
action  escapes  me,  to  smuggle  many  matches,  which  she 
could  scarcely  need,  through  the  customs  in  her  hand-bag. 
The  attempt  was  discovered,  and  cost  us,  despite  the 
utmost  eloquence,  one  hundred  francs.  I — O  wondrous 
woman's  nature! — was  blamed  for  this;  and  we  dined 
aboard  the  train  in  a  manner  scarcely  amicable.  But, 
before  we  got  to  Paris,  the  air  had  cleared  again,  and 
behold  me  in  an  even  greater  embarrassment  than  before. 
As  we  smoked  and  drank  our  coffee  (our  railway  coffee) , 
she  leaned  across  the  table  to  me,  her  petulance  a  thing 
of  the  past,  and  her  manner  more  serious  than  her  wont. 
'When,  man  petit  Louis,'  says  she,  'do  you  get  married?' 
You  can  conceive  my  joy,  the  subject  being  one  that  I 
delight  to  linger  over.  I  told  her  that  I  did  not  contem- 
plate marriage,  and  that  I  journeyed  to  Paris  to  settle 
down  as  a  student  of  painting;  that  there  had  come  a 
considerable  change  into  my  way  of  living.  She  was 
silent  some  length  of  time,  but  renewed  the  attack  with  a 
question  even  less  to  my  liking  than  the  first.  'Am  I,' 
she  asked  me,  'in  any  way  responsible  for  this  sudden 
change  of  all  your  plans?'  In  the  name  of  good  sense, 
my  wise  Richard,  what  was  I  to  say?  If  I  had  lied  to  her 
she  would,  later,  have  learned  the  truth ;  yet  to  name  the 
bald  facts  was  a  thing  beyond  me.  I,  unsuccessfully, 
grabbing  at  the  flying  coat-tails  of  composure,  informed 
her  that  through  a  misunderstanding,  on  account  of  a 
mistake,  due  to  a  misrepresentation,  she  was  the  cause. 
The  figure  I  cut  was  of  the  very  sorriest ;  yet  she  did  not 
seem  to  pay  me  any  attention.  'You  were  a  fool,  mon 
cher,'  said  she;  'I  am  not  worth  it.  Yet  you  asked  me 
to  come  to  Paris  with  you,  which  would  confirm  the 


Different  Sides  to  a  Question       in 

misunderstanding!'  It  was,  I  assure  you,  the  merest 
chance  that  I  did  not  bolt  from  the  dining-car,  fearing 
that  she  would  read  a  construction  on  my  actions  which 
I  was  not  able  to  face — with  her.  But  she  let  the  matter 
go  at  that;  looked  at  me  in  a  fashion  that  I  could  not 
interpret;  and  suggested  that  we  should  go  back  to  our 
compartment.  And  for  the  rest  of  the  journey  never 
another  word  about  the  business,  but  something  of  a 
return  to  the  old  manner  that  I  knew  when  I  first  met 
her.  Even  at  the  door  of  her  flat,  where  we  drove  from 
the  station,  even  as  I  said  good-night  to  her,  there  was 
no  indication,  which  might  have  been  given  in  a  hundred 
ways,  that  she  knew  anything  of  the  change  in  my  affairs. 
Yet  I  have  been  fool  enough  to  think  that  I  knew  some- 
thing about  them — these  women ! 

"When  I  had  left  Yvonne,  I  made  my  way  to  the  new 
flat  which  Loissel  has  taken  in  the  Boulevard  Haussmann. 
There  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  find  the  old  man  alone, 
a  snuff-stained  velvet  jacket  (when  I  am  white-haired, 
Dick,  I  shall  always  wear  one),  and  a  huge  cherry  wood 
pipe  proclaiming  him  at  his  ease.  He  gave  a  cry  of 
astonishment  at  my  entrance,  but  I  was  first  in  the  field 
in  the  matter  of  speech.  '  I  have  come  back,  monsieur, ' 
I  told  him.  '  I  have  come  back  to  learn  to  paint. '  '  Ah ! ' 
said  he,  and  nothing  more.  But  he  came  and  took  me 
by  the  shoulders,  and  moved  me  into  the  light  of  a  hang- 
ing lamp,  looking  down  very  searchingly  at  me,  for  he  is  a 
man  of  great  height.  '  Ah ! '  said  he  again,  when  he  had 
finished  his  scrutiny,  '  you  travel  by  the  via  dolorosa,  mon 
enfant.  It  is  a  road  which  leads  us,  not  infrequently,  to 
much  achievement.  But  you  will  stop  the  night  with  me 
— believe  me,  we  shall  sit  late  to-night — and  you  will 
tell  me  all  there  is  to  tell,  slowly,  in  your  own  way. 
But  you  know  me,  is  it  not,  mon  petit,  and  that  I  shall 


ii2  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

ask  no  questions  that  you  do  not  wish  to  answer. '  So 
I  sat  the  night  with  him,  Dick,  and,  as  he  had  said  I 
would,  I  told  him  all  there  was  to  tell.  He  asked  no 
questions ;  he  scarcely  spoke  until  the  tale  was  done,  but 
— you  shall  meet  him  some  day — he  is  a  man  to  whom  one 
tells  much,  perhaps  all.  Once,  when  I  spoke  of  recent 
events,  he  made  some  sort  of  answer,  yet  it  was  no  more 
than  'pauvres  enfants,'  and  seemed  the  whispered  voic- 
ing of  his  thoughts.  Again,  when  I  told  him — and  why 
I  was  moved  to  such  unburdening  I  do  not  know — of 
the  confusion  that  I  have  been  in  this  year  and  more,  he 
interrupted  me  a  second  time  muttering,  'So  the  way 
has  been  a  long  time  difficult, '  and  then  signing  me  to  go 
on.  After  I  had  finished  we  sat  a  long  while  silent,  and 
then  at  last  he  answered  me ;  and  as  he  did  so  he  leaned 
forward  in  his  chair  and  tapped  me  on  the  chest,  after 
the  habit  that  he  has.  '  So  much  for  the  past,'  says  he. 
'  It  is  to  the  future  that  we  must  turn.  Of  these  affairs 
of  which  you  tell  me  I  can  say  nothing.  Perhaps — I 
concern  myself  very  little  with  the  opinion  of  the  world — 
you  were  in  some  things  foolish,  yet  surely  these  others 
were  blind.  There  should  be  faith  in  such  matters — 
oh,  but  a  faith  that  is  stronger  than  appearances.  In 
life  it  is  at  least  permitted  to  hope,  and  we  will  do  that  in 
silence  until  the  way  ahead  is  clearer.  And  now  we  will 
speak  very  seriously  of  the  future  which,  mon  enfant, 
will  not  be  easy,  but  which  is  full  of  promise.'  So, 
Richard,  we  talked  of  the  making  of  a  painter. 

"  It  was  Loissel,  an  old  man  who  has  better  things  to  do 
than  run  about  with  restless  students,  who  found  me 
this  studio,  this  super-astral  home;  it  was  Loissel  who 
secured  for  me  many  bargains  in  my  furnishing,  who 
insisted  upon  accompanying  me  to  prevent  my  wasting 
money;  it  is  Loissel  who  is  killing  the  amateur  in  me, 


Different  Sides  to  a  Question       113 

and  encouraging  the  growing  artist;  it  is  Loissel,  a  man 
besieged  by  countless  requests,  the  greatest  teacher  and 
the  greatest  painter  in  all  Paris,  who  stamped  the  ground 
in  fury,  calling  me  an  impertinent  boy,  a  well-meaning 
but  grossly  foolish  baby,  when  I  asked  to  be  allowed 
to  pay  his  fees.  'Ah,'  cried  he  in  great  anger,  'to  the 
devil  with  your  money,  petit  enfant  insense!  I  want 
your  work,  not  your  sous.'  Yet  he  is  patient  and  un- 
tiring with  me,  and  sometimes,  which  thing  causes  much 
jealousy  in  the  quarter,  will  come  in  to  help  me  in  my 
studio.  I  should  be  the  worst  sort  of  hound,  Dick,  if 
I  did  not  forthwith  acknowledge  such  help,  both  in  my 
work  and  in  my  life,  as  I  can  never  even  hope  to  realise. 
If,  either  as  a  man  or  as  a  painter,  I  ever  come  to  any 
decent  standing,  old  Loissel  will  have  done  far  more 
than  I  to  put  me  there. 

"You  must  understand,  Richard,  that  here  occurs 
an  interruption.  I  have  been  out  to  get  my  dinner, 
and  I  have  found  on  my  return  a  letter  from  my  father, 
in  answer  to  one  that  I  wrote  at  dawn  in  your  rooms, 
and  dealing  very  much  with  one  that  Admiral  Onning- 
ton  has  written  to  him.  Poor  man!  It  seems  that  this 
damn-fool  business  has  hit  him  hard.  I  wonder  why 
— for  so  his  letter  suggests — he  thinks  that  the  thing  is 
any  the  less  serious  for  me.  I,  it  appears,  am  to  become 
a  mere  acquaintance,  who  will  be  treated,  should  he 
meet  me,  with  common  courtesy,  yet  I  gather  that  he 
will  not  seek  to  meet  me.  It  could  not  have  been  a 
pleasant  letter  to  write;  it  was  not  pleasant  to  receive. 
I  am  his  son,  Dick,  damn  it,  I  am  his  son.  I  cannot  see 
that  he  is  right  in  thus  holding  me  a  blackguard,  with  no 
further  attempt  to  establish  my  guilt  or  innocence.  And 
if  I  were  a  blackguard,  yet,  being  my  father,  he  might 
come  and  inform  me  of  the  fact  in  person.  To  be  cast 

8 


H4  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

off  like  an  unclean  rag  is,  I  fancy,  greater  punishment 
than  the  fancied  crime  demands.  It  is  a  lonely  business 
losing  the  whole  of  them  at  once. 

"  But  this  is  no  sort  of  topic  for  the  polite  letter- writer. 
I  '11  go  and  take  the  air  of  Paris,  leaving  my  stars  un- 
watched  to-night.  Heaven  and  yourself,  Dick,  forgive 
me  for  writing  a  letter  of  such  immoral  length.  Tell  me 
in  your  reply,  which  may  be  of  equal  length,  anything 
that  there  is  to  tell.  We  will  suppose  you,  my  dear  sir, 
to  be  a  man  of  intelligence,  and  to  understand  that  I 
still  take  interest  in  those  things  which  pleased  me 
yesterday.  But  what  in  the  name  of  truth  is  there  to 
say?  What  you  will,  Dick,  but  for  the  love  of  friendship, 
something. 

"  Don't  come  here  until  the  autumn.  I  want  to  settle 
down  alone. 

"Yours  eternally,  mon  Richard,  but  at  the 
moment  very  confusedly, 

"KENNETH  MASSINGDALE." 

This  letter  should  serve  to  give  a  very  good  picture 
of  Massingdale  as  he  then  was;  and  even  at  the  present 
time  he  is  little  changed.  He  would  supply  you  with 
much  information  that  was  of  interest,  and  he  would  so 
put  things  that  you  might  deduce  his  state  of  mind,  at 
the  moment  of  writing,  with  some  approach  to  accuracy, 
but  I  have  only  very  rarely  known  him  to  write,  or  for 
that  matter  to  speak,  of  his  more  intimate  feelings.  He 
was  the  last  man  to  attempt  to  hide  his  real  attitude,  but 
he  showed  no  fondness  for  announcing  loudly  what  that 
attitude  might  be. 

I  was  glad  to  receive  his  letter,  but  it  did  not  make 
me  see  the  business  in  any  better  light,  although  I  was 
forced  to  acknowledge  that  in  painting  he  worked  at 


Different  Sides  to  a  Question       115 

the  one  business  which  was  likely  to  lead  him  anywhere. 
The  information  about  his  father's  temper  caused  me  a 
good  deal  of  anger;  and  I  was  ready  to  swear  that  Massing- 
dale,in  his  usual  hot-headed  fashion,  had  seen  the  parental 
wrath  as  more  serious  than  it  really  was.  I  knew  Captain 
Massingdale  to  be  a  man  who  would  look  at  an  affair  of 
this  sort  with  no  kind  of  leniency,  but  I  did  not  fancy 
that  he  would  be  ready  to  consign  his  son  to  the  devil 
in  quite  such  summary  fashion.  As  for  the  rest  of  the 
letter,  in  spite  of  the  high  hopes  and  the  promise  of  his 
work,  I  did  not  fancy  that  the  prospect  of  the  stars  from 
the  sixth  floor  of  a  Montmartre  dwelling  would  induce 
the  philosophic  calm  that,  hitherto,  Massingdale  had 
always  failed  to  capture. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  OF  A  PARENT 

JUST  before  I  left  London  to  join  the  Onningtons  and 
their  yacht  at  Marseilles,  I  met  Hendick.  I  had 
not  seen  him  for  some  time,  not  since  a  week  or  more 
before  Massingdale's  departure  for  Paris,  and  I  foresaw 
that  we  should  discuss  that  departure.  The  time  of  our 
meeting  being  something  after  eleven  in  the  evening,  and 
the  place  Leicester  Square,  Hendick  took  me  off  to  a  beer- 
hall  in  Rupert  Street,  openly  confessing  that  he  intended 
to  gossip.  I  knew  very  little  of  him,  beyond  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  well-educated  man  with  very  aggressive  opinions, 
and  I  was  a  good  deal  astonished  to  find  him  a  far  more 
clear-sighted  and  sympathetic  friend  than  I  had  ever 
imagined. 

"So,"  said  he,  when  we  were  settled  at  a  table  in  the 
corner  of  an  underground  cafS,  "  Massingdale  has  settled 
down  in  Montmartre.  I  had  a  letter  from  him  the  other 
day,  saying  that  he  had  fled  from  the  Temple. " 

"You  know  why  he  fled,"  I  suggested,  since  the  thing 
was  public  knowledge. 

"Certainly,"  answered  Hendick.  "He  did -quite 
the  best  thing  possible.  I  '11  bet  you  don't  think  so, 
however." 

"I  don't,"  I  assured  him.  "Why  you  should  call 
doing  a  bolt  of  that  sort,  and  thereby  playing  into  the 

116 


A  Parent's  Point  of  View  117 

hands  of  the  people  who  call  him  guilty,  the  best  possible 
thing,  I  cannot  conceive." 

"My  dear  man,"  replied  Hendick,  obviously  glad  of 
the  chance  of  airing  his  views,  "what  else  could  he  have 
done?  We  need  not  enumerate  the  facts,  we  both  know 
'em,  but  here  you  have  him  faced  with  the  accusation 
of  playing  a  damned  low  game  on  the  girl  he  was  going 
to  marry.  She,  apparently,  believes  the  accusation. 
Massingdale,  I  suppose,  still  wants  to  marry  her.  Had 
he  been  an  absolute  fool,  he  might  have  thrown  himself 
on  her  pity,  admitted  many  indiscretions,  pleaded  that 
the  vital  implication  was  unjust,  and  implored  her 
pardon.  She  might — it  is  only  a  possibility  and  not 
very  probable — still  she  might  have  overlooked  the  in- 
cident, married  him,  and  let  the  pair  of  them  in  for 
another  spoiled  marriage.  Do  you  suppose,  man,  that 
any  couple,  tied  together  for  life,  can  make  a  decent 
journey  of  it  when  the  wife  believes,  as  she  would  have 
done,  that  her  husband  was  unfaithful  at  the  start?  I 
don't.  Their  life  would  have  been  hopeless  from  the 
start,  even  supposing  the  woman  was  a  sort  of  gilded 
saint  instead  of  an  inexperienced  girl. " 

"  Go  on, "  said  I,  for  he  paused. 

"If,"  he  continued,  putting  his  pipe  on  the  table,  and 
speaking  very  earnestly,  "she  had  refused  to  pardon 
him,  as  I  fancy  she  would,  where  would  he  have  been? 
In  the  devil  of  a  hole,  my  friend.  By  his  own  confession 
a  sort  of  weak-minded  idiot.  Instead  of  that  he  sticks 
to  his  guns;  denies  the  imputation,  or  so  I  imagine;  is 
not  believed;  and  so  goes  off.  Any  fool  could  have  seen 
that  if  he  had  not  fallen  in  love  with  Miss  Onnington 
at  a  critical  moment,  he  would  have  settled  down  to 
painting  before  this.  He  simply  acted  as  a  sensible  man 
would:  saw  that  things  were  wrong  beyond  the  point 


n8  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

of  setting  them  right,  and  so  did  the  sanest  and  most 
honest  thing  open  to  him.  He  did  not  whine  about  his 
wrongs,  which  are  big  enough;  he  did  not  waste  time  and 
dignity  in  explanations,  which  would  not  have  been 
believed ;  he  simply  made  the  best  use  of  what  was  before 
him.  But,  being  Massingdale,  he  made  up  his  mind  at 
once,  where  a  smaller  man  would  have  hesitated." 

"I  '11  grant  you,"  I  allowed,  for  Hendick  had  sat  back 
in  his  chair  in  the  manner  of  a  man  who  has  conclusively 
proved  his  point,  "that,  on  the  whole,  he  did  best  in 
going  to  Paris  and  throwing  up  the  law.  I  agree  with 
you  it  must  have  come  sooner  or  later.  If  it  had  come 
after  his  marriage  there  would  have  been  the  devil  to 
pay;  but  that  is  another  matter.  The  point  is,  that  he 
made  an  unnecessary  fool  of  himself,  in  going  off  with 
Yvonne  Carrel.  The  world  could  not  forego  dwelling 
on  that  episode,  coming  after  the  other. " 

"The  world  is  a  collection  of  damn  fools,"  announced 
Hendick,  much  as  I  had  expected  that  he  would.  "  What 
does  it  matter  what  the  fools  may  say?  Sooner  or  later 
those  who  really  care  for  him,  of  whom,  possibly,  Miss 
Onnington  may  be  one,  will  realise  that  what  he  has  done 
has  proved  his  honesty.  Why,  the  very  fact  that  he 
went  off  with  the  woman  who  caused  all  the  fuss  helps 
to  prove  his  case.  No  one  can  go  on  indefinitely  believing 
Massingdale  to  be  a  cynical  and  careless  blackguard; 
whatever  he  may  be,  and  I  know  he  is  no  saint,  he  is  so 
very  patently  not  that.  Well,  his  conduct  only  admits 
of  one  other  interpretation,  it  shows  him  impulsive  and 
unconventional.  Eventually  they  will  all  come  round  to 
that  view,  that  is  the  people  who  have  sufficient  intelli- 
gence to  know  him ;  but  meanwhile  they  are  all  going  to  be 
honourably  and  virtuously  scandalised,  and  are  going  to 
avoid  any  communication  with  so  choice  a  scoundrel." 


A  Parent's  Point  of  View  119 

I  had  not  expected  him  to  show  such  warmth  of 
championship;  I  had  looked  for  a  tirade  against  con- 
ventionality, and  a  rather  obvious  sermon  on  Massing- 
dale's  luck  at  being  quit  of  the  chains  which  had  bound 
him;  but  for  once  Hendick  had  forgotten  to  indict 
Society,  and  was  solely  concerned  with  a  personal  matter. 
I  liked  him  better  in  this  mood  than  in  any  other  that  he 
had  showed  me. 

"Of  course,"  he  resumed,  after  an  interval  in  which 
we  had  both  ordered  more  beer,  "the  business  is  not 
pleasant  for  Massingdale.  It  would  have  a  bad  effect 
on  any  one,  to  be  cast  off  by  his  people  in  that  fashion ; 
but  it  gives  him  a  chance  that  he  might  otherwise  have 
missed.  I  think  he  will  take  it,  Crutchley.  I  fancy  he 
will  do  something  bigger  than  any  of  us  expect.  But 
he  will  have  an  unholy  time  before  he  does  it;  he 
has  more  pride  than  the  whole  crowd  of  his  virtuous 
detractors,  and  he  will  not  take  this  casting-off  lightly. " 

"It  won't  spoil  him,"  I  protested;  "he  is  far  too  good 
a  sort  to  drop  into  cynicism  or  bitterness.  He  will  feel 
it,  I  know,  but  he  will  show  precious  little  of  his  feelings. " 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  answered  Hendick;  "I 
was  thinking  of  the  future,  when  the  patrons  of  virtue 
find  out  their  mistake,  when  they  see  that  his  whole 
conduct  has  been  consistent,  and  not  in  the  way  they 
think.  Then  the  fun  begins.  If  they  meet  him  openly, 
and  own  that  they  have  made  considerable  and  foolish 
mistakes,  he  will  reply  to  them  with  a  laugh  and  open 
arms;  if  they  run  on  the  stupid-misguided-youth  tack, 
and  suggest  that  they  are  magnanimous  in  overlooking 
so  much  folly,  they  '11  have  to  whistle  till  the  crack  of 
doom  before  they  get  him.  Damn!  It 's  chucking-out 
time.  We  shall  have  to  go. " 

We  walked,  since  our  ways  lay  for  some  distance 


120  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

together,  slowly  and  in  silence.  As  we  turned  into 
Henrietta  Street  towards  the  market,  Hendick  started 
the  subject  again,  with  a  laughing  apology,  which  I  did 
not  expect,  for  his  garrulity. 

"  It  is  the  one  point  where  I  resemble  Massingdale, "  he 
declared,  "I  love  the  sound  of  my  own  voice."  He 
paused,  exhibiting  unwonted  signs  of  nervousness,  then 
plunged  into  his  subject  with  an  obvious  effort.  "I  am 
afraid,"  he  apologised,  "that  since  I  don't  know  you 
very  well,  you  may  think  this  rather  an  impertinence, 
especially  as  I  am  sure  to  bungle  it — the  thing's  not 
in  my  line.  But — do  you  think  that  your  cousin,  Miss 
Onnington,  is  really  fond  of  Massingdale,  that  the 
feeling  which  she  called  love  is  the  real  thing,  is,  in  fact, 
at  all  likely  to  last?" 

I  stared  at  him;  his  question  annoyed  me  as  well  as 
causing  me  surprise.  It  is  not  the  sort  of  thing  I  usually 
discuss  with  slight  acquaintances.  But  something  in  the 
man's  attitude,  which  drove  away  any  idea  that  he  was 
merely  gossiping,  led  me  to  answer  him,  as  far  as  I  could 
answer  the  question. 

"  I  did  not  think  so  until  the  other  day,  in  fact  I  was 
certain  of  the  contrary;  now,  however,  I  have  turned 
round,  and  believe  that  the  feeling,  as  you  call  it,  is 
the  real  thing.  Very  possibly  I  may  be  wrong;  Miss 
Onnington  is  very  young." 

I  imagine  that  he  gathered  from  my  tone  that  I  did 
not  much  fancy  the  topic,  for  he  again  apologised  for 
introducing  it. 

"I  hope  you  are  right,"  he  replied,  coming  to  a  halt 
as  we  emerged  into  Kingsway.  "I  didn't  ask  out  of 
idle  curiosity.  I  wanted  to  find  out  if  there  was  any 
chance  of  her  realising  her  mistake.  He  wants  some 
one  to  look  after  him;  he  is  the  sort  of  man  who  has 


A  Parent's  Point  of  View          121 

a  genius  for  helping  other  people  at  his  own  expense, 
if  he  has  n't  some  sort  of  anchor  in  life.  And  a  wife,  they 
tell  me,  is  an  anchor  that  pretty  often  holds. " 

"I  fancy,"  I  laughed,  for  he  seemed  to  be  clearing 
obstacles  in  the  most  careless  fashion,  "that  Massing- 
dale  is  not  likely  to  find  himself  riding  at  the  particular 
anchor  in  question." 

"He  may  yet, "  Hendick  maintained,  "if  what  you  say 
is  true.  Sooner  or  later,  as  I  said  before,  they  will 
realise  the  folly  of  dubbing  Massingdale  blackguard 
any  longer;  and  at  the  first  mouthful  of  humble  pie 
he  '11  stop  them  eating  any  more.  But  they  '11  have  to 
take  the  first  mouthful. " 

"He  himself  might  change,"  I  suggested,  certainly 
not  because  I  thought  it  probable,  but  to  hear  what 
he  would  say. 

"  It 's  damned  unlikely, "  said  Hendick.  "  Good-night. 
I  hope  I  see  you  again." 

And  he  walked  off  towards  Bloomsbury,  where  he  had 
his  dwelling. 

As  I  made  my  way  home,  I  realised  that  I  had  been 
in  talk  with  him  for  something  over  an  hour,  and  that 
no  hint  of  any  desire  for  social  reform  had  escaped  him; 
and  I  marvelled  at  the  circumstance,  and  the  power 
which  Massingdale  seemed  to  possess  of  occupying  the 
thoughts  of  his  friends  to  the  exclusion  of  their  own 
most  cherished  hobby-horses. 

Three  days  later  I  joined  La  Cygale  at  Marseilles, 
and  cruised  the  Mediterranean  in  her  for  two  very 
pleasant  months.  She  was  a  hundred-ton  schooner, 
and  her  lines,  for  all  that  she  had  petrol  auxiliary  engines, 
were  such  as  to  delight  the  heart  of  the  most  exacting ; 
add  to  this  that  she  behaved  herself  very  admirably  in 
both  light  and  heavy  weather,  and  you  will  perceive 


122  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

that  we  had  at  hand  the  foundations  of  a  very  pleasant 
holiday.  For  my  part,  I  should  be  stating  something 
very  much  less  than  the  truth,  were  I  to  deny  that  I 
enjoyed  myself  immensely  during  the  months  that  I  was 
of  her  company;  and,  if  I  may  judge  by  appearances, 
which  in  this  case  I  am  inclined  to  do,  I  will  wager  that 
the  others  enjoyed  the  cruise  in  no  way  less  than  I  did. 
My  aunt  and  uncle,  Joan  and  myself,  lived  aboard  La 
Cygale  until  the  beginning  of  September,  but  for  no  more 
than  an  occasional  night  or  two  were  we  without  other 
company  aboard ;  and  although  I  had  not  previously  met 
many  of  the  guests  whom  the  Onningtons  entertained, 
they  all,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  proved  themselves 
excellent  good  company,  both  for  cruising  and  for  a  day's 
excursion  ashore.  The  Mediterranean  had  been,  hitherto, 
unknown  to  me,  and  during  those  weeks  that  we  sailed  it, 
I  came  precious  near  to  complete  forgetfulness  of  less 
pleasant  affairs  in  the  pleasure  of  the  moment. 

I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  Joan  took  the  same 
pleasure  from  the  cruise  that  I  did,  but  I  am  certainly 
prepared  to  maintain  that  she  enjoyed  herself.  There 
were  days  on  which  she  inclined  to  silence,  and  sought 
the  company  of  books  rather  than  people;  there  were 
times  at  which  she  showed  restlessness  and  seemed  sad ; 
throughout  the  cruise,  and  after  it,  she  could  be  seen 
changed  from  the  girl  of  some  months  before;  but  she 
did  not  make  a  luxury  of  grief,  if  she  felt  it,  and  it  would 
be  a  gross  libel  to  say  that  she,  in  any  way  at  all,  failed 
to  contribute  her  share  to  the  gaiety  of  the  ship's  com- 
pany. She  did  not,  I  fancy,  dwell  more  than  she  could 
help  upon  the  past,  and  she  made  no  deliberate  allusion 
to  it,  yet  it  was  plain,  though  not  obtrusive,  that  she 
remembered  it,  and  that  she  was  scarcely  likely  to  forget 
it  for  some  time  to  come. 


A  Parent's  Point  of  View  123 

Once,  for  three  days,  we  were  forced  into  somewhat 
closer  company  with  the  events  of  the  early  summer; 
and  I  am  inclined  to  include  the  lot  of  us  in  the  same 
congratulation  that  we  got  through  that  period  with 
so  little  outward  discomfort.  Captain  Massingdale 
came  aboard  at  Malta,  about  the  middle  of  August, 
and  spent  three  days'  leave  cruising  with  us.  He  had 
not  seen  us  since  the  breaking  off  of  the  engagement, 
and  the  way  for  everybody  was  fairly  lined  with  pit- 
falls; I  think  that,  broadly  speaking,  we  escaped  the 
lot  of  them.  Perhaps  his  manner  was  a  shade  more 
kindly  to  Joan  than  the  occasion  demanded,  but — 
confound  it  all — I  should  have  made  ten  times  a  worse 
hash  of  it,  had  I  been  in  his  place;  and,  in  any  case,  he 
never  bordered  on  the  sentimental. 

After  my  aunt  and  Joan  had  turned  in  on  the  first 
night  that  he  was  aboard  us — we  had  no  other  guests 
at  the  time — he  broached  the  subject  of  Kenneth's 
behaviour;  and  that  was  the  only  occasion  during  the 
whole  cruise  that  I  remember  it  to  have  been  discussed 
directly.  We  sat  on  deck,  the  night  being  hot,  and  the 
wind  light  and  almost  astern  of  us,  yet  sufficient  to  keep 
her  steady  on  the  starboard  tack.  I  was  feeling  lazy 
and  content,  and  very  far  away  from  the  sifting  of  serious 
matters,  much  more  inclined,  as  far  as  I  remember,  to 
smoke  and  dream  into  the  night.  We  all  three  sat  silent 
after  the  women  had  left  us,  engaged  for  some  little  time 
with  our  own  thoughts;  then  Captain  Massingdale  sat 
forward  on  his  deck-chair  with  an  air  of  purpose,  and  put 
an  end  to  our  meditation. 

"We  will  discuss  this  business  of  Kenneth,"  he  said 
quietly;  "that  is,  if  you  don't  mind,  Onnington.  I  have 
not  had  the  chance  of  talking  it  over  before,  and,  God 
knows,  I  want  to." 


124  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"I'll  leave  you  to  it,"  I  suggested,  thinking  that 
they  would  not  want  me;  but  they  insisted  that  I  should 
remain. 

"Why,  Dick,"  replied  Captain  Massingdale,  "you 
are  his  greatest  friend,  and  we  shall  want  you  for  the 
defence;  you  must  stand  as  the  prisoner's  friend,  if 
there  is  anything  to  be  said  for  him. " 

So  we  went  through  the  whole  affair  again,  and 
finished  much  where  we  had  started,  gathering  no  more 
understanding  by  our  talk,  and  precious  little  satisfac- 
tion. The  only  thing  which  I  got  from  the  conversation 
was  a  certain  amount  of  information  about  the  relations  of 
Massingdale  and  his  father,  and  that,  when  I  had  it,  did 
nothing  to  throw  any  light  on  the  general  misunder- 
standing. I  tried  advancing  the  arguments  which  Hen- 
dick  had  used  in  the  matter,  but,  although  I  got  a  hearing 
for  them,  they  were  not  accepted,  and  I  am  inclined  to 
doubt  whether  I  did  any  good  by  putting  them  forward. 

"I  did  not  fancy,"  Captain  Massingdale  declared  at 
last,  when  we  had,  all  three  of  us,  failed  to  find  any- 
thing to  say  about  the  business  that  we  had  not  said 
before,  "that  we  should  arrive  at  any  new  conclusion. 
In  fact,  Onnington,  I  ought  to  apologise  for  forcing  the 
conversation,  which  is  a  very  unpleasant  one  for  you; 
but  I  could  not  manage  to  let  slip  the  chance  of  talking 
the  matter  out.  And  if  a  man  has  something  to  talk 
about,  he  had  better  get  going  as  soon  as  he  can. " 

"Far  and  away  the  best  thing  to  do,"  replied  my 
uncle.  "I  'm  glad  you  did  it,  and  infernally  sorry  we 
could  n't  get  to  some  other  conclusion.  Of  course, 
Dick,  here,  thinks  we  are  narrow-minded  and  conven- 
tional. I  am  rather  glad  he  does.  And  look  here, 
Massingdale,  I  '11  be  shot  if  I  can  get  rid  of  my  liking 
for  that  boy  of  yours,  but,  under  the  circumstances — 


A  Parent's  Point  of  View  125 

he 's  a  different  build  to  you  and  me,  and  I  hope  he  will 
do  something  with  his  life." 

My  uncle,  whenever  he  attempted  to  express  a  feeling 
which  moved  him,  made  use  of  a  manner  that  was 
exceedingly  gruff,  and  he  finished  his  sentence  in  this 
case  in  much  the  same  voice  that  he  employed  when 
dismissing  a  servant  or  sending  a  beggar  about  his 
business.  He  and  Captain  Massingdale  had,  however, 
served  together  for  many  odd  years,  and  knew  each 
other's  moods  with  some  thoroughness;  so  that  there 
was  no  danger  that  they  would  fail  to  understand  each 
other. 

"  I  hope  to  God  he  will, "  his  father  answered,  speaking 
quietly,  and  getting  up  from  his  chair  to  throw  a  cigar 
end  overboard,  so  that  I  could  not  see  his  face.  "It 
is  more  important,  however,  that  he  may  have  done 
a  very  serious  harm  to  some  other  life. " 

He  did  not  continue  the  discussion,  but  stood  looking 
out  to  sea  with  his  head  thrown  back,  in  a  fashion  that 
Kenneth  had  inherited  from  him.  Although  he  was 
taller  and  of  a  heavier  build  than  his  son,  he  was  very 
clearly  of  the  same  breed,  and  showed,  as  he  stood  with 
his  back  to  us  in  the  half-darkness,  a  resemblance  that 
I  had  not  noticed  before.  It  was  in  their  movements 
and  their  speech  that  the  pair  showed  the  great  difference 
that  there  was  between  them. 

After  some  minutes  of  silence  Admiral  Onnington 
stood  up  and  yawned. 

"I  'm  going  to  turn  in,"  he  announced,  making  a 
move  for  the  companion  way.  "Don't  let  me  hurry 
you  fellows,  but  I  feel  sleepy.  Tell  one  of  the  watch 
to  put  those  chairs  away  when  you  go.  'Night,  Massing- 
dale. Look  after  him,  and  see  that  he  has  all  he  wants, 
Dick.  Good-night." 


126  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

And,  with  a  last  look  at  the  weather,  he  went  below. 

Captain  Massingdale,  who  had  turned  round  to  say 
good-night,  came  and  sat  down  beside  me,  and  filled 
a  pipe. 

"In  any  hurry  to  turn  in? "  he  asked. 

"None  at  all,"  I  answered,  settling  more  comfortably 
in  my  chair.  "It  seems  an  abominable  misuse  of  time 
to  sleep  on  a  night  like  this  at  sea. " 

"I  'm  the  other  way  about,"  he  laughed;  "but  then 
I  should  be,  naturally.  A  fine  night  ashore,  in  the 
country,  will  keep  me  out  of  bed  until  all  hours.  At 
the  moment  I  am  wondering  how  any  man  can  enjoy 
being  a  passenger  on  board  ship.  I  can't  stand  it." 

"Do  you  distrust  the  skipper?"  I  asked,  having 
heard  other  sailors  complain  of  the  same  thing  yet  fail 
to  give  an  explanation. 

"Lord,  no,"  he  replied  at  once.  "He  is  probably  as 
good  a  man  as  I  am.  Besides,  I  had  the  feeling  before 
I  ever  held  a  command.  It 's  being  altogether  out  of 
it,  and  having  nothing  to  do,  I  fancy. " 

Conversation  between  us  stopped  at  that,  and  I 
suddenly  became  conscious  that  he  had  something  of 
more  importance  to  say  to  me,  that  he  was  beating 
about  for  a  suitable  opening.  I  imagined  that  Kenneth 
would  form  the  subject  of  our  talk,  and  was  about  to 
refer  to  him  when  I  was  forestalled. 

"I  am  inclined  to  envy  you,"  Captain  Massingdale 
stated,  and  although  his  tone  was  little  different  from 
when  he  had  last  spoken,  I  thought  that  his  expression, 
as  far  as  I  could  read  it  in  the  darkness,  had  become 
sad  and  somewhat  bitter. 

"Why?"  I  asked,  not  seeing  his  meaning. 

"Because  you  are  a  friend  and  I  am  a  father,"  he 
continued  in  the  same  voice.  ' '  And  because,  between  the 


A  Parent's  Point  of  View          127 

two,  there  is  a  greater  difference  than  you  imagine.  I 
am  no  philosopher,  and  I  cannot  express  what  I  want  to 
say,  but  a  friend  is  in  an  easier  position;  he  is  more 
detached,  his  affection  is,  in  some  ways,  a  purer  thing 
than  a  father's.  A  father  is  bound  by  all  sorts  of  obliga- 
tions; his  son  is,  so  to  speak,  the  continued  expression 
of  himself,  and  when  he  condemns  his  son's  behaviour 
he  is,  very  largely,  defending  his  own  honour.  Then, 
again,  there  is  his  family,  the  name  which  they  both  bear; 
if  that  suffers,  it  is  bound  to  put  the  father  against  the 
action  that  hurt  it.  It  is  a  much  harder  business  for  a 
father  to  look  unbiassed  at  an  affair  of  this  sort,  than  for 
a  friend.  You  must  make  allowances  for  that,  Dick." 

"I  know,"  I  replied,  in  some  confusion.  "Of  course  I 
realise  that  this  thing  hits  you  much  harder  than  it 
does  me.  I  sincerely  apologise,  if  I  have  seemed  aggres- 
sive in  defending  Kenneth.  But  I  am  so  certain  of  your 
mistake ;  and  if,  as  you  say  yourself,  a  father  is  necessarily 
biassed " 

But  he  interrupted  me  with  a  laugh  that  had  mighty 
little  mirth  in  it,  yet  was  kindly  for  all  that. 

"Why,  man,"  said  he,  "there  you  go  again.  It 's  no 
good,  Dick,  really.  However  you  may  put  it,  I  have 
formed  my  opinion.  This  woman  had  been  Kenneth's 
mistress,  and,  under  what  temptation  I  do  not  know  or 
care,  while  he  was  engaged  to  Joan  Onnington,  she  was 
in  the  same  position  again;  of  that  I  am  convinced. 
But  that  is  not  what  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about.  I 
want  to  speak  to  you  of  the  relations  between  the  two 
of  us,  Kenneth  and  me,  I  mean.  The  boy  is  young, 
and  I  hoped  he  was  going  to  do  something.  He  has 
got  brains.  When  I  heard  about  this  business,  and 
its  sequel  of  his  throwing  over  his  profession,  I  lost 
my  head  a  bit;  I  wrote  a  very  bitter  letter.  I  am  not, 


128  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

perhaps,  the  level-headed,  conventional  officer  that  you 
think  me;  Kenneth  is  not  the  only  Massingdale  who 
is  inclined  to  get  excited.  What  I  said  in  that  letter 
I  do  not  quite  remember;  nothing,  I  am  convinced, 
more  than  I  felt,  and  feel.  But  I  expressed  it,  I  fancy, 
with  too  much  bitterness.  The  point  of  the  whole 
thing  was  that,  in  future,  our  attitude  towards  each 
other  would  be  changed ;  he  had  dishonoured  our  name, 
he  had  gone  against  all  my  wishes  into  the  bargain; 
I  could  not,  and  would  not  if  I  could,  disinherit  him, 
but  in  the  future  he  must  do  without  my  help,  and — 
I  am  afraid  I  added — without  my  company.  His  reply 
to  that  letter  was  quite  short — very  polished  and  polite. 
He  regretted,  he  wrote,  that  my  hopes  had  met  with 
such  a  check;  children  are  proverbially  unsatisfactory 
creatures.  At  the  same  time,  he  informed  me,  he  could 
find  no  fault  with  my  decision;  that  I  should  continue 
to  appear  on  cordial  terms  with  a  son  whom  I  believed 
to  be  a  dishonourable  scoundrel,  would  be  little  short  of 
foolish;  that  he  should  continue  to  be  on  cordial  terms 
with  me  while  I  believed  such  a  thing  of  him,  would  be 
equally  absurd.  Therefore  my  decision  was  completely 
satisfactory  to  both  of  us.  He  finished  by  expressing 
the  wish  that  we  should  both  attain  some  distinction  in 
our  careers;  assured  me  that  he  would  always  look 
out  for  his  father's  name  with  eagerness  in  any  list  of 
honours;  and  concluded  by  informing  me  that  a  letter 
addressed  'chez  M.  Loissel'  would  always  find  him, 
although  he  hoped  that  the  necessity  for  sending  a 
letter  might  not  arise  for  many  years  to  come. " 

I  had  not  any  idea  of  what  I  should  reply  to  this 
confidence;  the  matter  seemed  too  serious  to  allow  of 
any  conventional  expression  of  pity,  and  I  had  not  the 
wit  to  think  of  some  phrase  that  would  express  my 


A  Parent's  Point  of  View  129 

feelings.  The  quarrel  was  gone  to  such  lengths  that 
there  seemed  no  immediate  way  of  settling  it.  Mean- 
while Captain  Massingdale  puffed  at  his  pipe  in  silence, 
blowing  out  great  clouds  of  smoke  in  quick  succession, 
until  the  bowl  began  to  crackle  and  must  have  been 
as  hot  as  a  furnace.  In  a  minute  or  so  he  began  speak- 
ing again,  quietly,  and  as  much  to  himself,  I  fancy,  as 
to  me. 

"We  've  made  a  hash  of  it  between  us, "  he  murmured; 
"and  I  can't  see  any  way  out  of  it.  Of  course  I  should 
have  got  a  few  days'  leave,  and  visited  him  in  Paris; 
we  might  have  come  to  some  understanding  then.  The 
thing  is  largely  my  fault,  I  know  that;  you  couldn't 
expect  the  boy  to  do  anything  but  meet  my  mood  more 
than  half-way,  after  that  infernal  letter  got  to  him. 
The  trouble  is  that  my  mood  is  very  much  changed. 
I  cannot  exactly  face  the  idea  of  going  on  without  seeing 
him ;  you  know  what  an  extraordinary  companion  he  was, 
Dick.  But  what  is  there  to  do ?  " 

He  paused,  obviously  expecting  me  to  answer  some- 
thing, which  thing  I  had  very  little  fancy  for  doing. 

"If  you  saw  him  now,"  I  suggested  lamely,  "could  n't 
you  patch  the  business  up  somehow?" 

"Somehow?"  he  repeated.  "How,  is  the  point.  If 
I  were  to  go  to  him,  what  do  you  think  would  be  the 
first  thing  that  he  would  ask  me?  Let  me  have  the  truth, 
Dick,  I  don't  want  any  optimism  out  of  place."  For 
I  had  hesitated  at  his  question. 

"I  imagine  he  would  want  to  know  whether  you  still 
thought  him  a  blackguard, "  I  answered. 

"Yes.    He  would.    I  still  think  him  one.    What  then?" 

"You  would  n't  get  much  forrarder. " 

"We  should  be  worse  off  than  before,"  he  announced, 
his  voice  very  bitter.  "He  would  be  exceedingly  polite; 


130  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

he  would  laugh  and  joke  in  the  pleasantest  manner 
possible;  and  would  gently  convey  the  understanding 
that  I  was  a  companion  in  whose  society  he  found  little 
entertainment.  If  I  pressed  him,  and  asked  for  the 
establishment  of  our  old  relations,  and  a  forgetting  of 
the  past,  he  would  laugh  and  refuse  me.  '  What !  Friend- 
ship with  a  dishonourable  blackguard?  Surely  you 
forget  your  position  as  a  gentleman.'  He  would  give 
me  some  such  phrase  as  that,  and  I  should  lose  my  temper. 
No.  It 's  impossible.  Can  he  earn  his  living  by  this 
painting?" 

"Yes.  I  think  so.  Only  it  will  take  some  time.  No 
matter  how  good  the  man  is,  and  Kenneth  is  much 
above  the  ruck,  he  must  learn  his  trade. " 

I  was  purely  thankful  that  we  had  got  to  firmer 
ground,  and  gave  him  my  answer  with  eagerness;  but 
he  checked  me,  seeming  a  different  man,  with  most  of 
the  sympathy  gone  out  of  him. 

"I  'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  he  replied,  a  hint  of  offence 
in  his  tone.  "Since  he  has  made  a  choice  of  the  thing, 
I  hope  he  will  do  well  at  it. " 

His  manner  did  not  encourage  a  discussion  of  the 
point,  and  he  gave  another  indication  of  the  finish  of 
the  talk  by  pocketing  his  pipe,  and  making  ready  to 
turn  in.  It  seemed  to  me  that  these  Massingdales 
cultivated  a  trick  of  politely  wishing  each  other  pro- 
sperity, whenever  they  happened  to  quarrel ;  I  remembered 
the  last  phrases  of  Kenneth's  letter,  but  for  a  variety 
of  reasons  refrained  from  quoting  them.  However, 
Captain  Massingdale's  show  of  temper  did  not  last  long, 
although  it  was  sufficient  to  prove  that  any  reconcilia- 
tion between  him  and  his  son  would,  at  present,  be 
unlikely.  He  stood  up,  and  addressed  me  with  a  laugh 
of  apology. 


A  Parent's  Point  of  View  131 

"The  older  generation  is  not  coming  out  well  to- 
night, Dick,"  he  assured  me.  "You  're  probably  right 
in  thinking  me  a  strange- tempered  fool;  but  I  can't 
get  over  the  fact  that,  in  addition  to  the  other  things, 
this  affair  has  turned  Kenneth  into  a  painter.  We 
need  not  discuss  it,  but  you  know  I  have  always  been 
against  that.  However,  he  manages  his  own  affairs 
without  me  now. " 

He  took  a  turn  along  the  deck  up  to  the  foremast 
and  back;  came  and  slipped  his  arm  through  mine, 
for  I  had  got  up  from  my  chair  as  he  walked  off;  and 
led  me  just  forward  of  the  main-shrouds,  where  we  stood 
and  looked  out  over  the  sea. 

The  wind  was  very  light,  no  more  than  sufficient  to 
keep  the  sails  drawing;  yet  La  Cygale  seemed  content 
with  the  weather,  and  made  on  her  way  steadily,  rising 
and  falling  gently  to  the  swell,  as  if  she  rocked  herself 
to  sleep.  The  water  gurgled  softly  at  her  bows,  and 
the  wake  she  left  behind  her  showed  smooth  and  far- 
stretching  on  the  quiet,  untroubled  sea.  The  night  was 
very  clear  and  the  stars  shone  pale  overhead,  faded 
and  tired  at  the  coming  of  the  day.  A  greyness  covered 
the  whole  expanse  of  sea  about  us,  light  and  shade  were 
deadened  to  one  dull  colour,  and  eastwards,  beneath  a 
thin  bank  of  cloud,  the  broken  line  of  the  horizon  began 
to  show  sharp-cut  against  the  sky;  the  air  struck  chill, 
and  even  the  summer  night  could  not  hide  the  sadness 
of  the  dawn  on  waters. 

I  shivered,  and  buttoned  up  my  coat.  Captain 
Massingdale  turned  his  head  at  the  movement. 

"Getting  chilly,"  he  remarked.  "We  had  better  go 
below,  unless  you  want  to  wait  for  the  sunrise,  and  I 
don't  suppose  you  do." 

I  shook  my  head ;  but  he  did  not  move. 


132  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"Look  here,  Dick,"  he  continued,  looking  out  to  sea. 
"I  want  you  to  promise  me  something.  It 's  the  out- 
come of  all  this  talk  I  've  had  with  you  this  evening. 
Will  you  promise  me — I  want  you  to  give  me  your  word, 
remember — that,  if  Kenneth  gets  on  his  beam-ends,  if 
things  go  wrong  with  him,  and  you  find  out  that  he 
can't  manage  to  keep  his  head  above  water,  you  '11  let 
me  know.  I  can  't  let  the  fellow  starve. " 

"Yes,"  I  answered  readily  enough,  although  I  had 
such  faith  in  Massingdale's  ability  that  I  did  not  imagine 
that  I  should  be  called  upon  to  carry  out  my  promise. 
"If  it  comes  to  that,  and  if  I  hear  of  it,  I  '11  let  you 
know.  I  '11  better  the  bargain,  if  you  like,  I  '11  write 
you  now  and  again  of  what  he  is  doing. " 

"Will  you?"  he  asked,  and  his  face  in  the  gathering 
light  showed  extraordinarily  eager.  "Thanks.  We'll 
call  that  settled.  I  trust  to  you.  And  now  I  '11  give 
you  a  chance  of  sleep. " 

So  we  turned  in,  and  forgot  about  giving  orders  for 
the  chairs  to  be  put  away;  and,  whether  Captain  Massing- 
dale  was  in  the  same  case  or  not,  I  do  not  know,  I  slept 
like  a  log  almost  from  the  moment  that  I  lay  down  in 
my  bunk. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   RECREATIONS   OF   AN   ARTIST   IN   PARIS 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  September  we  left  La  Cygale 
at  Toulon,  and  came  straight  through  to  Paris. 
The  Onningtons  were  going  back  to  England  after  one 
night's  rest,  but  I  had  arranged  to  spend  a  week  with 
Massingdale.  Thinking  that  a  meeting  between  the 
two  was  a  thing  to  be  carefully  avoided,  I  had  not 
said  anything  of  my  plans  except  that  I  stopped  in 
Paris;  that  they  probably  guessed  with  whom  I  should 
stay  was  their  affair,  not  mine.  I  had  also  given  Massing- 
dale no  more  information  about  my  arrival  than  that  I 
should  come  and  look  him  up  when  I  arrived,  which 
would  foe,  I  wrote  to  him,  one  or  other  of  two  days 
named. 

We  arrived  about  six  o'clock  at  the  Gare  de  Lyon, 
and  I  put  up  for  the  night  at  the  same  hotel  as  the 
Onningtons,  imagining  that  we  should  spend  a  quiet 
evening  after  eighteen  hours  of  railway  travelling. 
My  aunt,  as  I  had  suspected,  declined  to  move  from 
the  hotel  after  dinner,  but  Joan  announced  her  intention 
of  going  out  alone,  if  we  refused  to  go  with  her.  I  had 
not  the  least  objection  to  a  walk,  an  evening  in  the 
lounge  of  a  fashionable  hotel  being  a  penance  I  would 
do  much  to  avoid,  and  I  imagined  that  if  we  kept  to 
the  boulevards  and  the  Opera  quarter  we  ran  no  risk 

133 


134  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

of  coming  across  Massingdale,  so  she  and  I  left  the 
others  to  the  prospect  of  an  early  bed. 

For  some  unknown  reason  Joan  took  it  into  her  head 
that  she  would  like  to  visit  one  of  the  Montmartre  cafes. 
"Not  the  places  where  the  foreign  tourists  go,"  she 
informed  me,  "but  interesting  places  where  we  shall 
see  bohemians  and  apaches,  and  that  sort  of  people." 
I  am  no  bohemian,  but  a  respectable  lawyer,  yet  I 
resented  the  way  she  classed  these  harmless  persons 
with  apaches;  and  I  was  very  much  set  against  a  visit 
to  Montmartre.  In  the  first  place,  respectably  dressed 
young  women,  of  polite  upbringing  are  out  of  place 
there,  and  in  the  second,  it  increased,  in  an  altogether 
unnecessary  fashion,  the  odds  on  an  encounter  I  much 
wished  to  avoid.  Therefore,  I  hardened  my  heart  against 
Joan's  entreaties;  listened  stolidly  to  her  plea  that  the 
last  time  she  had  stopped  in  Paris  was  in  the  capacity  of 
a  schoolgirl;  and  declined  with  much  firmness  to  be 
lured  into  any  distant  district  of  the  town.  I  believe 
that  I  then  established  a  reputation  in  her  mind,  which 
my  subsequent  behaviour  has  not  entirely  abolished, 
for  extreme  conventionality  and  an  almost  fanatical 
distaste  for  any  other  haunts  than  those  sanctioned 
by  polite  society;  yet  I  was  aware  that  Massingdale 
dwelt  in  Montmartre,  and  might  very  well  be  found  in  a 
cafe,  such  as  she  described,  if  we  could  happen  on  such 
a  place,  while  she  did  not  know  for  certain  that  he  was 
still  in  Paris,  and  had  no  idea  of  his  address.  Besides, 
the  acquisition  of  such  a  reputation,  although  it  be 
something  of  a  libel  on  my  character,  has  done  me  no 
harm  that  I  can  discover. 

As  a  concession  to  Joan's  desire  to  leave  the 
boulevards  and  to  visit  some  less  popular  thoroughfare, 
we  strolled  round  by  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale  and  the 


An  Artist  in  Paris  135 

General  Post  Office  down  to  Les  Halles,  and  then  back 
to  the  lights,  and  the  noise,  and  the  flaring  sky  signs 
again.  We  had  been  late  over  dinner,  and  we  had  not 
hurried  on  our  walk,  but  had  idled  along,  trying  to 
picture  the  streets  as  they  used  to  be  whenever  we  came 
upon  a  block  of  older  houses,  discovering  as  we  went 
along  the  vast  proportions  of  our  ignorance  of  Paris 
history ;  so  that  when  we  turned  from  the  Rue  Richelieu 
to  the  corner  of  the  Boulevard  des  Italians  the  earlier 
theatres  were  already  empty,  and  the  cafes  were  com- 
mencing the  business  of  the  night.  We  made  for  the 
Cafe  Riche,  which  is  less  tourist-infected  than  many  of 
its  neighbours,  which,  besides,  is  very  far  removed  from 
being  a  spot  much  patronised  by  the  impecunious 
brethren  of  Montmartre,  and,  finding  the  terrace  full, 
had  to  go  inside,  where  we  got  a  table  by  the  windows. 
Joan  was  obviously  pleased  with  her  surroundings,  and 
declared  that  she  had  almost  forgiven  me  for  my  refusal 
to  take  her  to  some  less  ordinary  place  of  entertainment. 
We  sat  for  some  time  watching  the  crowd  pass  before  the 
cafe,  occasionally  exchanging  a  remark  when  a  figure, 
whose  originality  called  for  comment,  came  into  view, 
but  for  the  most  part  silent.  The  great  merit  of  the 
boulevards,  as  I  see  it,  lies  in  the  circumstance  that  you 
may  sit  at  your  ease  and  watch  all  classes  and  conditions 
of  mankind  troop  by  before  you,  in  the  manner  of  a 
picture  show.  The  pageant,  when  seen  from  behind  the 
protection  of  a  little  table,  becomes  unreal,  the  sordid 
quality  of  much  of  it  escapes  the  observer,  and  the  whole 
procession  takes  on  the  habit  of  an  entertainment  to  be 
regarded,  in  seriousness  or  in  jest,  as  the  fancy  moves  one. 
Clerks  and  shop-girls,  the  half-world  and  the  great  world, 
the  respectably  clad  and  minded  man  of  affairs  with  his 
wife,  in  all  things  similarly  equipped,  upon  his  arm, 


136  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

the  thief  and  the  person  of  unquestioned  rectitude, 
Frenchmen  and  foreigners  of  all  races  and  colours,  all 
hurrying  along  with,  for  the  most  part,  the  restraint  of 
their  work  gone  from  them.  You  may  hear  them 
laughing,  quarrelling,  whining,  bullying,  as  the  mood 
has  them,  yet  whether  they  be  going  to  seek  food  and 
drink,  or  be  taking  the  air  in  the  process  of  digestion, 
whether  they  be  out  furtively,  with  an  eye  for  the  un- 
welcome policemen,  to  get  the  wherewithal  to  satisfy, 
later  and  in  a  less  pretentious  place,  the  demands  of 
their  very  obvious  hunger,  or  whether  they  show  them- 
selves to  the  night  well  clad,  well  nourished,  and  seek- 
ing nothing  but  amusement,  they  observe  the  laughing 
manners  of  the  boulevard,  and  are  intent  to  see  that  the 
night  shall  bring  some  minor  profit  to  themselves.  To 
a  throng  playing  their  hands  with  such  light-hearted 
enthusiasm  it  would  be  an  unseemly  liberty  to  introduce 
a  serious  analysis;  whatever  their  businesses,  and  they 
cover  a  wide  field  from  the  foolish  to  the  vicious  and  the 
criminal,  while  they  walk  the  boulevards  they  absolve 
themselves  from  serious  consideration,  abandon  both 
their  tragedy  and  their  claim  upon  the  admiration  of 
their  neighbours,  and  shelter  themselves  under  the 
cloak  of  laughter,  of  light,  and  of  noise. 

Joan  and  I  were,  I  have  said,  well  content  to  watch 
the  crowd,  and  to  let  it  furnish  us  with  the  matter  for 
an  occasional  remark.  We  had  become,  I  remember, 
interested  in  the  repeated  passage  of  a  couple  more 
lively  than  the  rest :  a  youth,  a  student  I  imagined  him, 
with  a  girl  upon  his  arm,  both  extravagantly  dressed  in 
exaggeration  of  the  moment's  fashion,  and  both  joyfully 
exhibiting  the  fact  that  they  had  dined ;  the  man  inclined 
to  song,  the  girl  delighting  in  his  prowess.  They  had 
already  passed  the  cafe  three  or  four  times,  and  on  each 


An  Artist  in  Paris  137 

appearance  seemed  to  challenge  the  interference  of  the 
police  with  more  insistence.  Joan  had  therefore  laid 
me  a  bet,  a  rash  thing  to  do  for  they  might  well  have 
sought  some  other  promenade  without  compulsion,  that 
they  would  be  sent  about  their  business  if  they  appeared 
again;  and  I,  knowing  something  of  the  Parisian  police, 
had  taken  her.  I  was  engaged  in  keeping  a  lookout  up  the 
boulevard,  in  which  direction  they  had  disappeared,  when 
I  heard  Joan  give  an  exclamation,  quickly  stifled.  I 
turned,  and  seeing  her  with  her  colour  somewhat 
mounted,  and  her  expression  carefully  set  against  the  ex- 
hibition of  any  feeling,  followed  the  line  of  her  gaze  with 
considerable  misgiving.  Just  come  into  the  sphere  of  the 
cafe  lights  I  saw  Massingdale,  and  with  him  Yvonne 
Carrel.  His  face  seemed  thinner  than  it  used  to  be,  and 
I  could  have  sworn  the  man  had  aged  since  last  I  saw 
him,  but  the  light  made  any  comparison  worthless,  and 
he  was  laughing  and  talking  with  all  his  usual  anima- 
tion. He  was  walking  quickly,  however,  and  I  had 
little  time  in  which  to  look  at  him;  Yvonne  Carrel's 
appearance  I  did  not  notice.  When  they  had  dis- 
appeared, I  looked  at  Joan  and  found  her  eyes  on  me. 

"That  was  Mademoiselle  Carrel  with  Mr.  Massingdale, 
wasn't  it,  Dick?"  she  asked,  without  any  sign  of 
embarrassment.  • 

"It  was,"  I  answered,  cursing  Fate  very  heartily  for 
the  circumstance. 

"I  think  she  is  rather  good-looking,"  Joan  replied, 
casually ;  and  turned  to  the  window  again. 

We  sat  for  some  minutes  as  we  had  been  before,  and 
then  Joan  began  putting  on  her  gloves. 

"I  believe  that  couple  have  been  run  in  somewhere 
else,"  she  declared.  "I  think  you  ought  to  call  the 
bet  off,  or  pay  me  the  money. " 


138  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"I  certainly  won't  pay  you,"  I  assured  her.  " Do  you 
want  to  go?" 

On  the  way  back  to  the  hotel  Joan  was  very  talkative, 
and  I  could  not  find  any  fault  with  her  manner,  except 
that  she  was  more  voluble  than  her  wont.  From  which 
thing  I  was  forced  to  the  deduction  that  she  had  recently 
learned  much  about  the  control  of  her  feelings ;  for  I  was 
not  willing  to  admit  that  the  sight  of  Massingdale  had 
left  her  unmoved — the  exclamation  that  she  had  checked 
spoke  against  that — or  that  his  being  in  the  company  of 
Yvonne  Carrel  had  given  her  any  pleasure.  The  affair 
was  very  little  to  my  fancy,  especially  as  my  efforts  to 
avoid  the  encounter  had  brought  the  thing  about,  and 
I  was  inclined  to  take  it  as  a  personal  grievance  that 
artists,  more  especially  unknown  artists,  should  so  far 
forget  themselves  as  to  haunt  the  boulevards  at  night. 
It  is,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  a  most  improper 
proceeding. 

(However,  what  were  her  feelings  about  this  chance 
meeting  Joan  did  not  offer  to  inform  me,  and  as  I  was 
not  at  all  inclined  to  question  her  on  the  subject,  she 
left  Paris  the  following  day  with  no  more  said  about 
the  matter. 

When  I  had  seen  the  Onningtons  off,  I  walked  up  to 
the  Rue  Antoinette,  climbed  the  six  flights  of  stairs, 
which  were  certainly  very  dark  and  unclean,  and  dis- 
covered Massingdale  in  his  studio,  a  great  bare  place, 
uncommon  cold,  I  should  imagine,  in  winter,  littered 
with  the  odds  and  ends  of  the  artist  and  the  bachelor. 
The  owner  was  engaged  in  copying  the  plaster  cast  of 
a  very  muscular  leg,  when  I  made  my  appearance,  and 
he  hailed  me  with  a  shout. 

"Welcome,  old  thing,"  he  cried,  shaking  me  by  the 
hand.  "I  imagine  you  arrived  last  night — you  look 


An  Artist  in  Paris  139 

too  fresh  to  have  come  off  the  train  this  morning — 
you  should  have  let  me  know.  You  11  stop  here.  I  '11 
curse  you  with  bell,  book,  and  candle,  if  you  put  up 
at  any  gilded  hostelry. " 

"Have  you  a  room? "  I  asked  him. 

He  replied  as  he  often  does,  when  an  ordinary,  practical 
question  is  put  to  him. 

"A  room!"  he  shouted.  "This,  this  is  the  present 
generation,  born  in  splendour,  nourished  in  luxury, 
demanding  silk  hangings  to  their  beds  and  the  finest 
damask  sheets.  Take  shame  to  yourself  for  a  witless 
fellow,  Dick.  Should  I  ask  a  guest  to  share  the  shelter 
of  my  roof  and  not  offer  him  a  bed?  There  is  your  room, 
sceptic,  the  smallest  you  ever  slept  in,  yet  free  from 
vermin — I  can  say  no  more. " 

He  pointed,  with  a  magnificent  gesture  of  reproof,  to 
a  door  opposite  the  stove;  and  I,  going  into  the  room 
behind  it,  found  the  place  no  larger  than  he  had  said. 
It  was,  I  should  judge,  not  more  than  six  feet  by  nine, 
and  was  mainly  occupied  by  the  bed;  yet  it  seemed 
clean. 

"And  where  will  you  sleep?"  I  enquired,  after  my 
inspection,  for  it  was  obviously  Massingdale's  room. 

"There,"  he  answered,  pointing  to  a  divan  which  ran 
round  three  sides  of  the  room.  "  There  is  accommodation 
for  at  least  six  stout  persons,  and  I  am  thin  and  daily 
growing  more  attenuated.  You  shall  have  clean  sheets. 
We  can  offer  you,  sir,  the  fullest  luxuries  of  the  pampered 
rich." 

So  I  accepted  his  hospitality,  since  I  saw  that  he 
really  wished  to  have  me  with  him ;  but  for  eight  nights 
out  of  the  ten  I  chose  the  studio,  and  slept  on  the  divan, 
the  weather  being  warm  and  the  bedroom,  under  such 
conditions,  sufficient  to  choke  a  man. 


140  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

At  first  I  was  too  pleased  at  being  in  Massingdale's 
company  again  to  reckon  up  the  changes  that  the  last 
two  months  had  made  in  him;  for  the  first  few  hours 
that  I  was  with  him  I  forgot  the  whole  wretched  business 
of  the  past,  and  concerned  myself  only  with  his  descrip- 
tions of  his  present  life,  and  the  picture  of  his  acquaint- 
ances which  he  conjured  up  for  me.  I  am  almost 
prepared  to  say  that  I  laughed  more  that  first  day  that  I 
spent  in  the  Rue  Antoinette  than  in  any  similar  period 
of  my  life,  before  or  since;  and  I  should  be  paying  a 
devilish  poor  compliment  to  his  powers  of  conversation 
if  I  suggested  that,  during  that  time,  I  thought  of  any- 
thing but  the  subjects  he  discussed.  However,  before  I 
went  back  to  England,  I  had  discovered  a  considerable 
change  in  the  man,  although  his  manner  was  not,  in  the 
slightest,  altered.  He  had  come,  I  think,  to  face  life 
with  a  greater  purpose,  and  was  entirely  serious  in  his 
art.  It  surprised  me  to  find  him  become  a  regular 
worker,  and,  except  on  the  Sunday,  to  hear  him  refuse 
to  desert  his  painting  while  the  best  of  the  daylight 
lasted.  In  many  things  I  thought  him  more  tolerant, 
and  on  some,  chiefly  matters  of  ethics,  inclined  to  refuse 
an  opinion.  It  would  be  misleading  to  say  that  he  had 
grown  up,  I  do  not  think  that  even  at  the  present  time 
he  can  be  said  to  have  left  childhood  behind  him,  but 
he  had  come  to  realise  that  the  most  of  the  men  about 
him  had  done  with  that  happy  state,  and  he  had  ceased 
to  be  angry  with  them  on  that  account.  But  above  all 
the  other  changes,  there  was  one  salient  point  that  took 
my  notice:  he  seemed  to  have  come  into  some  heritance 
of  power,  and  to  have  acquired  the  means  of  impressing 
on  those  who  met  him  the  fact  that  he  was  engaged  on 
work  that  he  did  well.  I  do  not  know  what  this  quality 
is;  I  imagine  it  nameless;  but  it  is  observable  in  all  men 


An  Artist  in  Paris  141 

who  gain  success,  and  in  many  to  whom  success,  in  the 
world's  sense,  shall  never  come,  and  it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  position  or  recognition,  for  it  is  to  be  noticed  in 
strangers  whose  name  and  calling  are  facts  unknown.  In 
London,  Massingdale  had  attracted  notice  in  almost  any 
gathering  as  a  man  of  promise:  apart  from  his  personal 
charm  he  had  conveyed  the  impression  that  he  would 
some  day  do  things;  now — I  cannot  get  nearer  to  the 
explanation  than  this — he  gave  the  suggestion  that  he 
was  doing  them,  and  that,  when  completed,  they  would 
have  some  worth. 

When  we  had  finished  dejeuner,  which  meal  we  took 
at  a  small  and  undistinguished  place  where  Massingdale 
seemed  well  known,  we  went  for  a  walk  in  the  Bois,  and, 
later,  fetched  my  luggage  from  the  hotel.  Upon  our 
return  to  the  studio,  we  found  the  stairs  blocked  by 
four  perspiring  men  and  a  piano;  at  the  moment  of  our 
arrival  the  instrument  reposed  in  the  middle  of  the  last 
flight,  and  the  men  sat  below  it  on  the  stairs,  smoking 
cigarettes.  The  presence  of  Massingdale  seemed  to 
relieve  them. 

" Tiens,"  cried  one  of  them,  a  little  fat  fellow  with  a 
black  beard,  who  gasped  and  panted  in  his  speech. 
"You  have  arrived;  and  not  too  soon,  my  friend.  I 
expire.  Another  five  minutes  and  the  world  had  lost 
Auguste  Vanne."  He  snapped  his  fingers  to  express 
the  suddenness  of  Auguste's  ending;  then,  seeing  me, 
got  up  from  the  step  where  he  sat ,  and  bowed.  ' '  M  'sieur , ' ' 
he  murmured,  and  the  other  three  followed  his  lead. 

"This,"  said  Massingdale,  presenting  me,  "is  my 
friend,  Monsieur  Crutchley."  Whereat  we  all  bowed 
again.  "But,"  he  added,  addressing  the  little  man 
who  called  himself  Vanne,  "what,  in  the  name  of  reason, 
are  you  doing  with  your  piano?  " 


142  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"We  take  it  to  your  studio,"  Vanne  informed  him, 
and  he  had  now  passed  from  gasping  to  a  sort  of  whistling 
wheeze,  which  was,  I  learned,  his  ordinary  voice.  "You 
give  a  reception  to-night,  don't  you?" 

"Certainly,"  answered  Massingdale;  "and  you  lend 
me  your  piano.  Thanks." 

"I  take  pity  on  your  forgetfulness, "  corrected  Vanne, 
waving  his  hand  in  a  large  circle.  "Five  o'clock  comes. 
I  go  up  to  your  studio;  you  are  not  there.  There  is 
no  piano.  I  take  counsel  with  myself:  a  reception 
without  a  piano  is  a  thing  unthinkable.  'He  has  for- 
gotten,' I  say;  'he  forgets  all  things.  I  will  make  sure.' 
I  go  to  the  concierge.  'Has  Monsieur  Massingdale 
spoken  of  the  arrival  of  a  piano?'  I  ask.  'No,'  answers 
the  animal  who  keeps  the  door.  'But,  Monsieur  Vanne, 
you  owe  me  the  rent  of  a  month.'  I  fly.  I  seek  out 
these  good  friends;  and  behold  the  piano  is  already  half 
way  to  your  door.  To  work,  mes  chers. " 

The  stairs  were  narrow,  the  piano  very  heavy,  and 
the  labour  unskilled;  so  that  the  removal,  when  we  had 
accomplished  it,  left  us,  all  six,  breathed  and  hot,  while 
Auguste  Vanne  appeared  upon  the  point  of  death.  He 
sat  upon  the  divan,  leaning  forward,  and  gasped  and 
gurgled,  panted  and  blew,  until  I  grew  uneasy;  yet 
whenever  he  showed  any  signs  of  getting  back  his  breath, 
he  would  start  laughing,  his  small  eyes  changing  from 
distress  to  merriment,  and  his  laughter  would  set  him 
coughing,  and  his  coughing  robbed  him  again  of  all 
his  breath.  The  paroxysm,  which  had  seemed  bound 
to  end  in  his  death,  passed  after  a  while,  and  he  was 
able  to  laugh  without  danger,  which  seemed  his  chief 
desire. 

" Mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu,"  he  chuckled,  "I  grow  fatter 
every  day.  Listen,  my  friends.  I  met  Richelin  to-day 


An  Artist  in  Paris  143 

— the  chef-d 'orchestre  of  the  opera,  Monsieur  Crutchley — 
he  seized  me  by  the  arm.  He  eyed  me  with  amaze- 
ment. '  Ca  va,  gros  tonneau,'  he  cried.  ' Tu  vas  crever 
bientot.  Pas  de  doute.'  He  was  very  agreeable." 

I  was  less  struck  by  the  humour  of  Monsieur  Richelin 
than  Vanne  himself  appeared  to  be ;  but  I  much  admired 
the  fashion  in  which  the  little  man  faced  a  physical 
infirmity  that  put  him  to  great  discomfort,  and  I  noticed 
a  peculiar  charm  about  his  chuckling,  wheezy  voice. 

When  we  were  recovered  from  our  exertions  with 
the  piano,  the  other  three  departed,  and  Massingdale 
and  Vanne  and  I  set  about  clearing  the  studio,  and 
making  it  ready  for  the  evening.  Massingdale  had 
already  told  me  that  he  was  entertaining  the  full  circle 
of  his  acquaintance  that  night,  and  that  the  affair  was 
a  sort  of  inauguration  ceremony  of  his  establishment 
as  an  inhabitant  of  the  quarter. 

"I  hoped  that  you  would  be  here  for  it,  Dick," 
he  had  said.  "You  used  to  take  a  sort  of  serious 
interest  in  these  shows.  Besides,  Loissel  has  promised 
to  come,  and  I  want  you  to  meet  him  as  soon  as 
possible." 

Personally,  I  was  very  glad  of  the  chance  of  being 
present,  and  I  joined  in  the  preparations  with  consider- 
able amusement.  The  studio  was  a  large,  bare  room, 
the  walls  washed  terra  cotta,  and  much  discoloured 
and  knocked  about.  The  divan  ran  along  three  of 
the  walls,  on  one  of  which  was  the  door  from  the  stairs, 
the  bedroom  opening  out  of  the  end  wall  at  right  angles 
to  it;  opposite  the  entrance  from  the  stairs  there  were 
two  windows  looking  over  Paris;  and  on  the  same  side 
as  the  stairs,  to  the  left  of  the  door,  as  you  faced  it,  the 
great  north  window,  running  up  to  the  roof.  The  place 
seemed  to  me  bare  and  ugly,  but  it  had  a  rough  and 


144  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

essential  comfort  about  it,  and  was  certainly  airy  and 
light. 

We  cleared  the  easels  and  canvases  into  the  corner 
by  the  stove ;  put  the  two  tables,  which  the  room  boasted, 
in  front  of  them;  stowed  the  odd  things  lying  about 
on  the  shelf  which  ran  round  the  walls  about  six  feet 
from  the  ground;  and  so  had  the  place  prepared  for 
whatever  the  guests  might  take  it  into  their  heads  to 
do.  When  we  had  set  out  the  food  and  drink,  which 
had  arrived  while  we  worked,  Massingdale  announced 
his  intention  of  dining  without  more  delay;  and  we 
accordingly  went  out. 

We  went  to  a  different  place  to  that  in  which  we  had 
lunched. 

"  It  is  a  good  rule  to  remember, "  Massingdale  informed 
me,  "that  where  you  are  satisfied  with  the  lunch,  you 
will  probably  be  disappointed  in  the  dinner. " 

And  Vanne,  who  came  with  us,  agreed  to  this  wisdom. 

"We  will  go,"  he  announced,  "to  the  Chasseur 
d'Afrique.  It  is  an  occasion  for  expenditure.  Potage 
a  la  bonne  femme,  salmi  de  gibier  (made  of  rabbit),  cheese, 
dessert,  and  a  bottle  of  good  wine — that,  mes  enfants, 
should  give  us  satisfaction." 

Although  we  faithfully  carried  out  the  programme, 
except  that  we  drank  three  bottles  of  wine  in  place  of 
one,  I  failed  to  understand  why  the  Chasseur  d'Afrique 
was  more  suitable  to  dine  at  than  our  restaurant  of  the 
morning ;  it  seemed  to  me  very  much  the  same. 

During  the  meal  Auguste  Vanne  gave  me  some  in- 
formation about  himself.  The  little  man  interested  me, 
and  I  listened  to  him  gladly. 

"I  am  from  Picardy,"  he  told  me.  "You  know  the 
country,  monsieur?  No.  No  more  do  I;  I  left  it  when 
I  was  ten  years  old.  I  am  of  Paris,  all  that  is  most 


An  Artist  in  Paris  145 

Parisian.  I  am  a  musician,  monsieur,  a  pianist.  But 
look  at  my  hands."  He  stretched  them  out,  and  they 
were  very  small  and  fat,  with  stumpy  fingers  not  too 
clean.  "It  is  a  tragedy.  I  have  the  soul  of  an  artist, 
yet,  if  you  will  believe  me,  I  have  difficulty  in  stretching 
the  octave." 

His  expression  changed  to  one  of  such  sorrow,  that 
I  feared  that  he  would  weep;  but  Massingdale  inter- 
rupted to  avert  his  woe. 

"Yet,  mon  gros,"  said  he,  "you  let  the  soul  come, 
somehow,  through  those  fat  fingers  to  the  notes. " 

The  little  man  gave  him  a  glance  of  thanks,  and 
resumed  his  ordinary  smiling  demeanour. 

"del,"  he  cried,  and  waved  his  hand  to  a  girl  who 
passed  our  table,  "I  forget  myself.  Life  is  not  the 
place  to  weep  in ;  laughter  and  the  sound  of  music  should 
fill  our  days.  And,  understand,  messieurs,  I  am  more 
fortunate  than  most  men.  I  compose  little  waltzes 
that  are  light  and  pretty,  but  far,  ah !  so  far,  from  being 
real  music ;  I  play  accompaniments  at  cheap  concerts  for 
inferior  singers,  that  is  true  and  unfortunate;  but  I 
begin  to  be  known :  men  speakwell  of  my  playing.  Richelin 
calls  me  a  barrel,  and  says  that  I  shall  soon  burst.  It  is 
good ;  some  day,  perhaps,  I  shall  play,  at  a  concert  of  my 
own,  one  of  the  divine  sonatas  of  the  great  Beethoven. 
And  beyond  that,  I  shall  never  reach  old  age  and  poverty; 
I  shall  die  suddenly;  perhaps  at  a  concert,  after  the  last 
notes  of  the  great  master  have  died  away — one  spasm 
of  pain,  pouf!  zut!  Auguste  Vanne  will  be  dead;  the 
heart  of  the  barrel  will  have  burst!" 

"But  to-night,"  said  Massingdale,  smiling  at  Vanne's 
excited  and  glistening  countenance,  "you  will  play  to 
us,  and  you  will  not  die.  I  should  be  very  angry  with 
you,  mon  cher,  if  you  died  in  my  studio. " 


146  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"I  will  play  Beethoven,"  the  fat  man  promised,  and 
suddenly  fell  to  smiling  with  an  air  of  mystery.  "But 
I  have  a  surprise  for  you,"  he  continued  proudly.  "I 
bring  a  friend  who  will  also  play  to  you. " 

"Good,"  answered  Massingdale.  "Yet  I  much 
doubt  if  he  will  give  us  more  pleasure  than  yourself. 
Who  is  he?" 

Auguste  Vanne  began  to  chuckle;  he  seemed  to  have 
discovered  another  joke. 

" Mon  Dieu!"  he  puffed,  "not  better  than  myself . 
Oh,  ma  foi,  no.  A  little  boy,  a  little  good-for-nothing, 
who  shall  one  day  stand  where  Paganini  stood.  Not 
better  than  myself!  Oh,  no!  It  is  my  cousin  whom 
I  bring,  the  little  Marellac!" 

"Good  Lord!"  murmured  Massingdale  in  English, 
the  name,  which  I  had  never  heard,  seeming  to  mean 
so  much  to  him. 

"One  promise,"  pleaded  Vanne,  as  we  settled  the 
bill,  which  the  others  would  not  let  me  pay  myself. 
"You  give  him  no  praise.  You  say  nothing  of  his 
playing.  He  must  not  lose  his  head,  and  think  that, 
already,  he  has  learned  enough  about  the  violin." 

On  the  way  back  to  the  studio  I  heard  who  "the 
little  Marellac"  was;  he  had  taken  the  first  prize  at  the 
Conservatoire,  and  was  being  looked  after  by  a  rich 
patron.  Vanne's  geese  were  often  swans,  I  learned  from 
Massingdale,  but  it  would  seem  that  his  young  cousin 
was  really  a  fine  player,  and  that,  as  he  was  not  to  play 
in  any  concert  for  another  two  years,  there  was  much 
hope  that  he  would  develop  to  his  full  powers. 

Very  soon  after  we  had  lighted  up  the  studio  Massing- 
dale's  guests  began  to  arrive;  and  shortly  after  nine  the 
place  was  crowded.  There  was  a  fair  sprinkling  of 
Englishmen,  which  pleased  me,  as  my  French  would  not 


An  Artist  in  Paris  147 

stand  the  strain  of  excited  colloquial  talk.  Yvonne 
Carrel  arrived  early,  but  I  had  only  a  few  minutes' 
conversation  with  her,  and  she  said  nothing,  naturally, 
of  what  had  happened  when  she  was  last  in  London. 
Marellac  was  among  the  last  comers,  and  seemed  a 
shy,  nervous  boy  of  sixteen,  very  far  removed  from 
having  a  swollen  head.  Auguste  Vanne  brought  him 
up  to  me  and  the  boy  seemed  very  ill-at-ease,  and  would 
only  talk  in  the  most  formal  fashion;  he  was  relieved,  I 
fancy,  when  he  found  some  one  else  with  whom  to  talk. 

I  could  not  see  any  one  who  might  be  Loissel;  and, 
about  half  an  hour  after  the  last  arrival  had  put  in  an 
appearance,  I  was  seated  on  the  divan,  for  the  moment 
alone,  trying  to  discover  him  in  the  crowd,  when  the  man 
next  to  me,  whom  I  had  not  particularly  noticed,  started 
talking.  He  was  an  Englishman  of  middle  age,  grey- 
haired,  clean-shaven,  inclining  to  stoutness,  with  a 
blotched  countenance  and  a  watery  blue  eye  in  which, 
when  it  was  not  glazed,  there  showed  much  humour. 
He  spoke  in  a  peculiar  jerky  fashion,  and  his  voice  was 
slightly  hoarse,  yet  obviously  that  of  a  gentleman,  and 
of  a  man  of  education  as  well. 

"You  are  Mr.  Crutchley,  I  take  it,"  he  began. 
"Pleased  to  meet  you.  Heard  Massingdale  speak  of 
you.  At  Cambridge  together,  then  in  chambers,  eh? 
Damn  fool  thing  of  Massingdale's  attempting  the  law. 
The  man 's  no  lawyer. " 

While  he  rattled  on  I  had  a  look  at  him,  and  was 
astonished  that  I  had  not  noticed  him  before;  he  was  a 
most  extraordinary  figure.  His  clothes  fitted  him  very 
badly,  but  had  the  appearance  of  having  come  from  a 
decent  tailor:  he  wore  shepherd's  plaid  trousers  and 
a  frock-coat,  with  an  enormous  black  cravat  in  the 
manner  of  a  stage  Frenchman ;  he  carried  a  gold-rimmed 


148  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

eye-glass  in  his  right  eye,  and  never  seemed  to  remove  it 
or  to  drop  it. 

"You  are  wondering  who  the  devil  I  am,"  he  con- 
tinued, giving  me  no  chance  of  answering  him.  "I  '11 
tell  you.  My  name  is  Athanasius  Roderick  Blinkson. 
You  may  laugh,  if  you  wish  to,  Mr.  Crutchley;  I  am 
used  to  it.  My  father  was  a  fool,  like  his  son,  that 
is  why  he  allowed  me  to  be  called  Athanasius  when 
fate  had  saddled  me  with  Blinkson.  I  was  once  a  Fellow 
of  Balliol;  I  think  the  other  fellows  rejoiced  when  I 
resigned — anyhow  I  did.  Only  sensible  thing  I  ever  did. 
I  live  in  Paris.  Teach  English,  Greek,  and  Latin  to 
poor  students;  have  done  for  twenty-five  years.  Just 
keeps  me  going.  For  the  rest  I  am  entirely  disreputable, 
and  a  confirmed  drunkard — but  you  can  see,  hear,  and 
smell  that.  Quite  superfluous  information.  I  have  no 
shame.  Now  you  know  something  about  me.  Talk 
if  you  feel  inclined;  if  not,  please  don't  be  polite.  I 
never  take  offence,  and  am  aware  that  I  am  a  most 
undesirable  person — I  shall  be  worse  before  the  finish 
of  the  evening." 

The  style  of  this  introduction  was  certainly  original, 
but  it  had  its  uses,  although,  at  the  offset,  it  induced 
embarrassment;  moreover,  as  far  as  I  could  judge  at 
the  moment,  Mr.  Blinkson  had  given  me  an  entirely 
accurate  description  of  himself.  He  was  clearly  a  drunk- 
ard, and  probably  very  undesirable.  Although  the 
whole  aspect  and  demeanour  of  the  man  set  me  against 
him,  there  was  something,  whether  it  was  the  kindly 
humour  that  showed  itself,  now  and  again,  in  his  blood- 
shot eyes,  or  whether  it  was  a  certain  shattered  remnant 
of  dignity  that  still  clung  to  him,  I  do  not  know,  but 
there  was  something  about  him  which  compelled  courtesy 
though  it  could  not  induce  any  liking. 


An  Artist  in  Paris  149 

"I  have  every  intention  of  talking,"  I  replied,  as 
easily  as  I  could.  "I  am  even  inclined,  if  you  '11  submit 
to  it,  to  put  you  through  a  cross-examination.  I  want 
to  know  who  all  these  people  are. " 

"Good,"  says  he,  sucking  at  an  old  and  very  foul 
pipe.  "  I  '11  be  your  guide. " 

He  faithfully  fulfilled  his  word;  but  it  was  without 
the  aid  of  any  questions  from  me.  For  during  the  next 
ten  minutes  he  unburdened  himself,  spasmodically,  of  a 
vast  amount  of  promiscuous  information  about  the 
company  assembled,  odds  and  ends  of  gossip  and 
biography,  given  in  his  peculiar  style,  mixed  up  with 
very  little  praise,  but  without  a  trace  of  malice.  I  saw 
no  means  of  stopping  him,  although  I  was  hopelessly 
lost  before  he  was  half-way  through ;  finally  he  came  to 
a  finish  of  his  own  accord. 

"See  the  big  man — old  fellow  with  a  magnificent 
head,  just  come  in?"  he  asked  at  last.  "That  is  Loissel. 
The  only  genius  present,  except  Massingdale  himself — 
I  mean  that — and,  perhaps,  this  boy  Marellac.  Finest 
man  I  ever  met.  Go  and  talk  to  him.  I  want  a  drink 
after  all  this  speaking. " 

I  followed  his  advice,  and  made  my  way  to  where 
Massingdale  and  two  other  men  stood  talking  to  Loissel. 
The  room  was  full  of  smoke,  and  the  noise  of  talk  was 
such  that  a  man  must  shout  to  make  himself  heard; 
there  were  faces  of  all  types  and  of  several  different  races 
to  be  seen;  yet  the  old  painter  stood  above  them  all,  in 
stature — for  he  was  a  man  of  over  six  feet — and  in  power. 
He  was  cast  in  a  generous  mould,  very  strong,  I  should 
imagine,  in  his  prime,  with  limbs  so  well  proportioned 
that  he  might  have  posed  as  a  sculptor's  model.  He  had 
a  mass  of  shaggy  white  hair;  his  beard  was  cut  round 
his  chin  in  a  fashion  that  called  to  mind  the  sea;  his  face 


150  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

was  tanned  and  weather-beaten;  and  his  hands  were 
thin,  very  finely  shaped,  and  kept  with  the  extreme 
of  care.  In  the  whole  cast  of  his  face,  which  was  large- 
featured  and  strong,  but  more  especially  in  the  eyes, 
there  was  a  suggestion  of  calm  and  power,  the  equal  to 
which  I  have  never  yet  discovered.  It  is  hard  to  judge 
a  man  when  you  know  him  to  be  a  person  of  great 
achievement,  the  mind  being  set  upon  the  finding  of  his 
greatness,  but  I  am  very  willing  to  wager  that,  had  I 
met  Jean  Se*bastien  Loissel  for  the  first  time  not  knowing 
who  he  was  or  what  he  did,  I  should  have  fallen  under  the 
same  spell  that  held  me  that  night  in  Massingdale's 
studio.  I  did  not  then  question  whether  he  was  a  great 
man,  I  was  fully  occupied  with  the  desire  to  make  his 
acquaintance,  which  desire  became  strong  only  when  I 
had  seen  him. 

I  joined  the  group,  and  Massingdale  introduced 
me. 

"I  hoped  that  I  should  meet  you  to-night,  Monsieur 
Crutchley,"  said  Loissel  in  his  deep,  quiet  voice,  and 
speaking  English.  "I  have  the  ill-fortune  to  be  leaving 
Paris  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  be  away  a  week.  I  shall 
talk  very  much  to-night,  monsieur.  We  will  sit  in  a 
corner,  and  you  shall  fight  with  sleep  while  'le  pere 
Loissel'  confides  in  you.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  many 
things — things  that  you  must  not  hear,  petit  Louis." 

Here  he  struck  Massingdale  in  the  chest;  laughed  a 
great,  rolling  laugh;  slipped  his  arm  through  mine;  and 
led  me  off  round  the  studio,  stopping  to  talk  to  every 
group  in  the  room. 

We  installed  ourselves,  Loissel  and  I,  after  he  had 
made  the  tour  of  the  studio,  in  the  corner  between  the 
bedroom  door  and  the  two  windows  which  looked  on 
Paris.  Having  crammed  a  great  cherrywood  pipe 


An  Artist  in  Paris  151 

from  the  contents  of  a  paper  packet  of  the  cheapest 
caporal,  he  forgot  to  light  it  in  the  eagerness  of  his 
speech. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "we  will  talk — in  French.  I  cannot 
express  myself  in  your  language;  I  am  forced  to  say 
what  I  can,  not  what  I  wish.  This  foolish  friend  of 
ours,  Monsieur  Crutchley,  he  has  made  many  false 
steps,  is  it  not?  No.  You  must  not  protest,  my  friend. 
I  do  not  think  him  guilty  of  any  dishonour — I  know 
him;  but  of  foolishness — that  is  another  matter!  But 
the  affair  is  finished,  done  with,  for  the  moment.  I 
cannot  understand  you  English;  I  cease  to  make  the 
effort  after  many  failures.  Man  Dieu,  but  you  are  droll! 
You  say — not  you,  monsieur,  but  the  others — this 
young  man  had  a  mistress,  therefore  he  is  bad.  He 
speaks  to  this  horrible  woman,  he  is  seen  with  her  again, 
therefore  he  has  gone  back  to  his  old  ways.  The  thing 
is  settled;  you  ask  no  questions;  your  mind  is  made  up. 
Yet  the  English  come  to  Paris  and  amuse  themselves; 
they  amuse  themselves  in  London;  they  do  what  all 
men  do.  They  are  not  different  from  us;  and  I  think 
that  they  have  ceased  to  make  a  profession  of  the  virtue 
which  they  have  not  got.  But  to  act  with  openness, 
to  make  no  secret  of  their  life — oh,  no,  they  will  not  do 
that.  This  young  man,  this  little  Louis,  he  made  no 
secret  of  it ;  he  had  a  mistress,  and  he  treated  her  as  he 
would  treat  a  friend.  It  is  plain,  monsieur,  is  it  not, 
that  he  is  a  very  vicious  boy,  without  shame  and  without 
proper  feeling.  No  man  with  wise  instincts, no  gentleman, 
monsieur,  would  take  any  interest  in  a  woman  so  debased, 
when  he  had  done  with  her;  if  he  did — ah,  we  are  not 
children  to  be  deceived  by  protests — it  would  mean  that 
he  had  gone  back  to  her  again.  The  thing  is  clear.  So 
say  these  others,  monsieur;  and  they  are  wrong.  It 


152  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

cannot  be  avoided,  their  mistake;  it  is  made.  There  is 
no  going  back,  you  agree  with  me?" 

He  leaned  towards  me,  gripping  the  lapel  of  my  coat, 
eyeing  me  very  earnestly,  and  tapping  my  waistcoat 
with  the  mouthpiece  of  his  pipe. 

"You  mean,"  I  replied,  "that  there  is  no  good  in 
Massingdale  attempting  to  make  Miss  Onnington 
change  her  opinion? " 

"So,"  he  answered,  giving  me  a  shake  in  his  eager- 
ness. " So,  monsieur.  And  you  agree?" 

"Yes,"  I  hesitated  somewhat  at  my  answer.  "I 
don't  think  that  it  would  do  any  good  at  present." 

"It  would  do  harm,"  he  announced;  and  although 
throughout  the  conversation  he  had  kept  his  voice  low, 
so  that  we  should  not  be  overheard,  it  rang  with  an 
assurance  that  compelled  me  to  agreement.  "It  is  the 
grande  passion  with  him,  my  friend ;  I  know,  I  read  him 
like  a  book.  He  will  not  forget.  So  much  the  worse. 
He  would  perhaps  find  more  happiness  in  a  heartless 
seriousness.  And  this  girl,  monsieur,  this  English  girl 
whom  I  do  not  know!  Perhaps  she  is  good,  beautiful, 
also  faithful,  and  perhaps  some  day  she  will  be  wise, 
will  get  sympathy  and  a  little  understanding.  Then 
she  will  come  to  him,  my  friend,  if  she  ever  cared  for 
him.  A  woman  has  many  resources,  even  now  in  this 
dull  age  of  money.  If  she  does  not  come,  if  she  never 
grows  wise,  if  she  never  cared  for  him — and  she  is  very 
young,  I  think,  a  child,  and  perhaps  does  not  know  her 
mind — then,  man  Dieu,  the  affair  arranges  itself  well; 
he  is  better  without  her.  Love  is  much,  my  friend — I, 
who  had  a  wife  to  love  me,  tell  you  so — yet  it  is  not 
all.  The  life's  work  comes  before  it.  Only  for  those 
without  ambition  is  this  great  comfort  and  happiness 
the  all,  the  end.  But  he  has  something  else.  What 


An  Artist  in  Paris  153 

should  a  man  count  happiness,  the  soft  pleasures  of  the 
fireside,  when  he  puts  it  against  a  great  work  that  he 
alone  can  do?  Nothing,  monsieur;  if  there  were  less, 
then  less." 

He  let  go  of  my  coat,  and  placed  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder.  His  voice  was  little  more  than  a  whisper, 
and  shook  with  the  sincerity  of  his  pleading. 

"Monsieur  Crutchley,"  he  implored,  "he  is  your 
friend.  You  will  work  with  me  and  help  him.  We 
will  make  a  great  artist  of  him.  He  shall  do  work  that 
is  good,  work  that  has  inspiration.  I  am  old,  I  approach 
the  end — not  yet,  I  hope,  but  before  many  years;  I 
have  passed  through  my  hands  many  students,  yet  not 
one  like  this  one.  I  am  too  fond  of  the  art  that  I  have 
worked  at  to  lose  this  chance.  There  must  be  no  waste 
of  his  time;  he  must  not  forget  to  paint,  in  hoping  that 
this  girl  will  come  to  him.  You  will  see  to  this;  you  will 
not  write  to  him  of  her;  you  will  let  the  matter  quite 
alone;  perhaps  it  will  arrange  itself,  perhaps  not;  but 
you  will  not  interfere?" 

His  words  were  more  of  command  than  question,  yet 
I  felt  no  resentment  at  them.  I  hesitated,  however,  to 
grant  his  request,  why,  I  do  not  know,  for  his  manner 
had  already  convinced  me. 

"You  think,  then,"  I  asked,  "that  he  will  do  these 
things?  You  think  that  he  will  become  a  great  painter? 
It  is  not  merely  a  case  of  aptitude  that  may  not  develop?  " 

"  Monsieur, "  he  answered  on  a  sudden  note  of  dignity, 
and  sitting  back  from  me,  "I  am  Loissel.  I  do  not 
exaggerate  on  a  matter  of  a  student's  ability. " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  apologised,  and  for  the  life  of 
me  I  could  not  avoid  the  feeling  that  I  was  gravely  at 
fault.  "If  that  is  so,  I  will  do  as  you  wish. " 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  smiling,  and  his  pipe  again  tapped  my 


154  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

chest,  "you  are  a  true  friend,  monsieur.  I  thank  you 
from  my  heart.  The  affair  is  arranged — le  p£re  Loissel 
shall  worry  you  no  more.  There  will  be  music  presently, 
good  music,  and  we  shall  have  no  other  thoughts,  you 
and  I,  to  spoil  the  pleasure  of  it. " 

I  am  no  musician,  a  musical  score  is  a  thing  of  no 
meaning  for  me;  on  the  other  hand,  I  am  not  a  lump 
of  wood,  and  I  am  of  opinion  that  music  is  the  most 
compelling  of  all  the  arts,  perhaps  the  only  one  that 
can  force  a  man  from  the  mood  in  which  it  finds  him, 
carrying  him,  whether  he  will  it  or  not,  into  a  kingdom 
where  his  own  thoughts  do  not  rule.  Therefore,  I 
prepared  to  listen  to  what  we  should  be  given,  with 
much  pleasant  anticipation. 

Auguste  Vanne  sat  down  to  the  piano  very  soon  after 
Loissel  and  I  had  finished  our  discussion,  and  as  he 
began  sounding  idle  chords  the  talk  stopped  in  the  room. 
How  the  company  managed  to  seat  itself  is  something 
of  a  mystery,  but  in  a  minute  the  room  was  quiet  and 
clear,  with  a  fringe  of  listening  men  and  women  on  the 
divan  and  the  floor.  Massingdale  had  been  thrust  into 
the  one  arm-chair  in  his  possession,  placed  in  front 
of  the  stove  and  a  little  out  into  the  room,  so  that  he 
faced  the  rest  of  us  in  the  manner  of  a  potentate  with 
his  court  about  him. 

"Bien! "  cried  little  Vanne.    "  We  commence. " 

He  struck  a  crashing  chord,  looked  over  his  shoulder 
to  Yvonne  Carrel,  as  if  giving  a  signal,  and  began  to 
play  the  music  of  the  entrance  of  Carmen. 

I  had  only  heard  Yvonne  sing  on  one  occasion,  and 
then  no  more  than  a  ballad  song;  I  had  no  idea  of  her 
power,  or  that  the  woman  as  I  knew  her  could  so  hide 
herself  in  the  player. 

The  spirit  of  Carmen  seemed  entered  into  her;  she 


An  Artist  in  Paris  155 

danced  and  laughed,  and  the  notes  came  from  her  with 
no  apparent  effort  or  consciousness;  she  sang,  I  could 
have  sworn  it,  because  the  mood  took  her  to  sing,  and 
because  singing  properly  expressed  the  nature  of  her 
thoughts.  And  Massingdale  was  her  Don  Jose".  She 
wooed  him,  laughing;  she  mocked  him,  and  her  eyes 
were  wide  and  soft;  she  caressed  him,  and  there  was 
only  coquetry  in  her  caress;  she  threatened  him,  and 
there  was  a  wealth  of  Southern  passion  in  her  clear, 
beautiful  voice.  At  first  Massingdale  seemed  astonished, 
for  a  moment,  I  fancy,  not  too  pleased;  then,  like  the 
rest  of  us,  the  spell  of  her  amazing  performance  held 
him,  and  he  sat  still  in  his  chair  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
her.  "Prends  garde,  prends  garde  a  toil"  she  sang,  her 
arms  wide,  her  body  bent  towards  him,  her  dark  eye 
bold  and  threatening;  then,  almost  before  her  last  note 
had  died  away,  she  was  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  laugh- 
ing and  bowing,  asking  us  whether  her  voice  had  not 
improved. 

The  applause  was  without  stint,  the  compliments 
given  to  her  sounded  to  me  sincere;  but  she  paid  little 
attention  to  them  and  came  almost  at  once  to  where 
we  sat,  taking  a  place  beside  Loissel. 

"Et  le  pere?"  she  asked.    "What  does  he  say?" 

He  answered  her  gravely,  with  his  large,  gentle  smile. 

"You  will  yet  sing  at  the  Opera — perhaps,  ma  belle." 

But  the  sound  of  Marellac  tuning  his  fiddle  brought 

another  silence  on  the  room,  and  with  it  a  sort  of  rustling 

stir  of  expectation.     The  artistic  circles  of  Paris  were 

talking  much,  it  appeared,  about  this  boy;  and  Auguste 

Vanne,  his  cousin,  sat  at  the  piano  puffing  in  his  pride. 

Of  the  boy's  playing  I  will  attempt  no  criticism ;  it  might 

have  been  a  mass  of  faults,  I  am  no  judge  of  technique. 

Yet  to  me  it  went  beyond  pleasure;  it  forced  me  to  wish 


156  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

that  I  was  alone  that  others  might  not  see  my  emotion; 
for  the  music  which  he  gave  us,  the  name  or  composer  of 
which  I  do  not  know,  was  sad  and  slow,  played  for  the 
most  part  on  the  low  strings,  and  the  violin  sobbed  in 
deep,  uneasy  pain.  There  was  a  silence  when  he  had 
finished,  and  he  received  no  more  than  murmured  thanks ; 
but  that  the  conversation  did  not  grow  loud  again  for  a 
full  five  minutes  was  an  appreciation  that,  I  imagine, 
he  could  understand. 

An  interval  in  which  many  healths  were  drunk,  and 
during  which  the  noise  became  greater  and  the  talk 
more  excited  than  it  had  been  before,  occurred  after 
Marellac  had  played.  I  discovered  Blinkson  in  a  corner 
solemnly  consuming  brandy,  and  explaining,  or  en- 
deavouring to  explain,  the  stylistic  value  of  Horace's 
Odes  to  an  uncomprehending  and  tolerant  maiden,  who 
earned  a  hard  living  as  a  model,  and  had  likely  never 
heard  the  name  of  a  single  Latin  author.  He  was  far 
gone  in  liquor,  and  had  some  difficulty  in  standing 
upright. 

Presently  Auguste  Vanne  sat  down  to  the  piano  again, 
and  as  before  the  noise  ceased  and  the  room  became 
clear  and  attentive.  I  went  back  to  my  former  place 
next  to  Loissel,  who  had  not  moved,  and  watched  the 
little  man  at  the  piano  with  much  interest.  He  had 
promised  that  he  would  play  Beethoven,  and  he  kept 
his  word,  giving  us  the  Adagio  from  the  Senate  Pathe- 
tigue.  I  have  seldom  seen  a  man  so  change  himself  as 
Vanne  did  when  he  touched  a  piano;  he  lost  all  his 
absurdity;  he  seemed  to  disguise  even  his  fatness;  he 
became  dignified,  and  a  man  of  purpose.  Fame  as  a 
pianist  was  a  thing  that  he  could  never  have,  yet  he 
played  well  and  with  great  sympathy  and  feeling.  As 
the  sad  melody,  that  air  haunting  and  soft,  grew  from 


An  Artist  in  Paris  157 

his  touch,  and  lost  itself,  and  came  again  to  die  away  in 
quiet,  you  could  see  him  answer  to  the  call  of  the  music, 
his  eyes  growing  dreamy,  then  purposeful,  and  back 
again  to  sadness.  When  he  had  finished,  he  sat  silent 
without  any  movement,  staring  at  some  vision  that  he 
had  created  for  himself;  and  I  imagined  that  here  was 
a  life  to  which  there  was  no  ending  but  in  disappoint- 
ment, since  the  man  was  wholly  concerned  with  the 
making  of  the  music  which  he  loved,  yet  was  faced  with 
the  knowledge  that  he  could  never  make  it  as  he  knew 
it  should  be  made.  A  common  state,  yet  thereby  not 
the  less  bitter,  I  imagine,  for  those  who  suffer  in  it. 

Without  getting  up,  Vanne  called  to  Yvonne  Carrel 
and  to  Marellac,  and,  when  they  had  come  to  him, 
spoke  to  them  in  low  tones.  Then,  without  any  warn- 
ing of  what  they  would  perform,  he  and  Marellac 
began  playing  the  Ave  Maria  of  Gounod,  the  violin 
giving  the  air.  The  thing  struck  me  as  incongruous,  out 
of  place,  a  beautiful  thing  in  a  wrong  setting;  but  I  soon 
forgot  to  criticise,  or  to  think  of  other  things  than  the 
wonderful  notes  of  pleading;  and  as  Yvonne  began  to 
sing,  with  Marellac  playing  the  obligato,  I  abandoned 
myself  to  such  music  as  had  not  come  my  way  before. 
Together  they  played  on  our  emotions  as  Marellac 
upon  the  strings  which  he  endowed  with  such  perfect 
utterance;  and  when  the  woman's  voice  was  silent  and 
the  violin  spoke  no  more,  there  was  quiet  in  the  studio. 
We  who  had  listened  to  them  sat  still,  each,  I  think, 
hoping  to  put  off  the  moment  when  talk  should  begin 
again,  every  man  absorbed  in  his  own  vision:  Loissel 
with  his  great  head  sunk  forward  on  his  chest;  Blinkson 
with  the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  a  pitiable  object 
of  half-awakened  drunkenness. 

But  Auguste  Vanne  did  not  leave  us  iong;  he  was  not 


158  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

in  the  mind,  I  fancy,  to  let  the  effects  of  the  music  wear 
themselves  away.  Before  a  word  had  been  spoken  he 
jumped  up  from  the  music  stool,  an  absurd,  fat  little 
man  again,  and  hailed  the  company  in  his  thick,  chuck- 
ling voice. 

"It  is  finished,  my  friends,"  he  cried.  "We  play  no 
more  to-night." 

Thereupon  the  company  behaved  as  before,  the  talk 
began  afresh,  and  the  drinks  went  round  again;  but, 
and  the  circumstance  impressed  me,  I  heard  no  com- 
ment, no  mention  even  of  the  music  that  had  just  been 
played. 

Loissel  left  soon  after  this,  and  with  him  went  Yvonne 
Carrel  and  the  boy  Marellac.  Before  he  went  he  told 
me  that  he  would  probably  be  in  London  after  Christmas, 
and  would  call  on  me;  so,  in  bidding  him  good-night,  I 
gave  him  my  address.  After  this  departure  the  character 
of  the  entertainment  became  more  ordinary,  the  noise 
not  less.  Auguste  Vanne  shut  and  locked  the  piano, 
declining  firmly  to  allow  another  note  to  be  played ;  and 
his  wish  met  with  little  objection.  Somewhere,  as  far 
as  I  remember,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  four-thirty  of 
the  morning,  what  there  were  left  of  us  adjourned  to  a 
neighbouring  cafe,  where  we  drank  beer,  in  my  case  with 
infinite  relish;  then,  each  using  what  strength  the  night 
had  left  to  him,  we  got  us  home  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  EXIT  OF  A  BISHOP  AND  THE  ADVENT  OF  AN  ARTIST 

WHEN  I  got  back  to  London  after  my  visit  to 
Massingdale  in  Paris,  I,  at  least,  had  the  satis- 
faction of  knowing  him  to  be  settled  in  a  profession  that 
promised  to  hold  his  attention  and  his  endeavours; 
beyond  that  I  was  not  tempted  to  make  any  prophecy 
on  his  account.  Before  I  left  the  Rue  Antoinette  I 
tackled  him  on  the  subject  of  finance  and  the  business 
prospect  of  his  career,  and  encountered,  as  I  had  antici- 
pated, a  good-tempered  toleration  of  what  he  probably 
thought  was  a  peculiar  whim  of  mine,  a  perfectly  careless 
optimism  about  his  future  income,  and  beyond  that — no 
sign  of  common-sense.  He  had  in  hand,  it  appeared, 
something  under  one  hundred  pounds,  and  with  that 
imposing  capital  was  quite  content  to  face  the  world; 
that  the  prospect  of  his  being  able  to  earn  any  more 
money  before  that  was  exhausted  appeared  extremely 
doubtful,  did  not  seem  to  trouble  him.  I  failed,  signally 
and  completely,  to  make  the  man  realise  that  in  a  few 
months  he  might  find  himself  without  a  penny ;  I  aroused 
in  him  no  more  than  surprise  that  any  one  should  look 
so  far  ahead.  As  a  concession,  I  fancy,  to  what  he  termed 
my  "indecently  practical  mind,"  he  explained  at  some 
length  his  idea  of  economy,  and  asked  my  approval  of  it ; 
in  so  far  as  I  could  gather  anything  from  what  he  told 


160  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

me,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  his  economical  prin- 
ciples consisted  in  living  with  extreme  care  and  at  very 
small  expense  for  five  days  in  every  week,  but,  upon  the 
remaining  two,  spending  very  much  more  money  than 
seven  days  of  quite  decent  comfort  would  have  cost  him. 
I  did  not  admire  his  system,  and  I  told  him  so;  whereat 
he  called  me  an  old  fool,  and  suggested  that  we  should  go 
and  get  a  really  good  dinner  to  remove  the  taste  of  so 
much  dry  talk. 

" Maitre  Richard,"  said  he,  as  we  neared  the  finish 
of  the  dinner  in  question,  which  I  had  not  had  the 
strength  of  mind  to  refuse  to  take  in  company  with 
him,  "you  have  been  talking  in  a  mighty  solemn  fashion. 
What 's  the  point,  my  friend?  If  I  am  to  starve — 
devil  take  the  thing — the  gods  have  ordered  it,  and  I 
shall  starve;  but  I  am  their  true  and  faithful  servant, 
I  trust  these  stern  Olympians  with  a  faith  you  cannot 
equal,  I  rest  in  their  arms  content.  Besides — we  will 
imitate,  good  sir,  your  own  abundant  common-sense — 
very  few  people  with  my  education  and  ability — I 
would  have  you  lay  stress,  sir,  on  the  ability — actually 
die  of  starvation ;  I  cannot  imagine  that  I  am  to  be  singled 
out  as  one  of  the  exceptions.  And,  if  I  do  not  die,  with- 
out doubt  I  shall  live — the  reasoning  is  perfect — and 
if  I  live,  I  shall  paint,  and  if  I  paint,  I  shall  be  happy, 
which  is  the  chief  end  in  life,  and  to  hell  with  the 
moralists  that  deny  it.  Friend  of  my  abandoned  youth, 
counsellor  and  sage,  honoured  and  esteemed  companion,  I 
drink  your  excellent  good  health  in  this  pleasant  wine, 
which — God  be  thanked — has  not  passed  through  the 
chemical  factory  on  its  way  to  this  table.  And,  my 
Richard,  no  more  of  business!" 

I  did  not  attempt  to  open  the  discussion  again;  and  I 
left  Paris  a  few  days  afterwards,  knowing,  I  fancy,  as 


A  Bishop  and  an  Artist  161 

much  about  the  chances  of  his  future  as  Massingdale 
did  himself,  which  is  to  say  that  I  knew  practically 
nothing  at  all. 

My  practice  at  the  Bar  was  beginning  to  fill  my  time, 
and  during  the  autumn  I  became  very  busy,  so  that  I 
had  little  time  to  think  of  Massingdale  or  his  affairs. 
In  addition  to  this,  he  was  a  bad  correspondent,  would 
maintain  silence  during  many  months,  and  then  send 
a  budget  that  told  very  little  about  himself;  so  that 
until  after  Christmas,  I  had  only  the  scantiest  news  of 
him.  However,  he  wrote  that  he  flourished  and  that  he 
led  a  calm  untroubled  life,  and  I  had  no  evidence  to 
prove  that  he  garbled  the  truth. 

I  imagined  that  with  Massingdale  in  Paris  I  should 
be  altogether  quit  of  the  Right  Reverend  Arthur  Sidney 
Magram-Coke;  I  was,  happily,  no  relation  of  his,  and 
I  saw  no  possible  reason  why  I  should  do  more  than 
encounter  him  on  chance  occasions;  yet,  why  I  could 
not  for  some  time  discover,  he  began  to  thrust  himself 
into  my  existence  with  suave  determination.  Shortly 
after  I  had  settled  down  for  the  autumn,  I  was  annoyed 
by  receiving  a  letter  from  him;  it  was  disgustingly 
polite.  He  wrote  that  he  imagined  that  I  should  be  in 
London  for  the  winter,  and  that  he  hoped  to  see  some- 
thing of  me,  since  it  was  his  great  desire  to  keep  in  touch 
with  old  college  friends;  and  he  urged  me  to  come  and 
lunch  with  him,  or,  if  lunch  was  not  convenient  for  a 
busy  man,  such  as  he  assumed  I  had  become,  to  dine, 
naming  my  own  day.  To  offend,  without  cause  or 
without  tangible  cause,  prominent  men,  however  ob- 
jectionable, is  not  the  best  way  to  success  in  life,  so 
that,  since  I  had  my  own  living  to  earn,  I  refrained 
from  replying  to  the  man  with  a  curt  refusal,  accom- 
panied by  the  suggestion  that  he  should  not  misuse 


1 62  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

the  word  friend;  instead  I  pleaded  a  press  of  work 
and  named  a  Saturday  for  dinner,  as  the  only  date  in 
the  near  future  on  which  I  could  accept  his  invitation, 
having  an  idea  that  all  parsons  were  always  busy  on  that 
particular  night  preparing  for  the  Sunday.  He  replied 
immediately  that  he  counted  on  me  for  the  evening 
I  had  named,  and  that  he  anticipated  a  long  chat  about 
old  days.  I  kept  the  engagement,  and  was  very  singularly 
bored.  He  was  then  a  bachelor  and  he  had  asked,  possibly 
commanded,  I  do  not  know  the  etiquette,  a  couple  of 
ordinary  clergymen  to  meet  me;  one  of  these  two  men 
toadied  his  spiritual  overlord  in  the  most  shameless 
manner,  apparently  rejoicing  in  the  snubs  which  he 
received;  the  other,  an  excellent  sort  of  fellow,  I  fancied 
him,  with  a  layman's  wit,  did  not  in  the  least  abase  him- 
self before  my  lord,  the  Bishop,  and  was,  I  imagine, 
without  the  hospitality  of  the  episcopal  table  for  the 
future.  Both  these  gentlemen  were  dismissed  in  un- 
mistakable fashion  soon  after  dinner  was  over,  and  I, 
despite  my  best  efforts  at  escape,  had  something  over 
an  hour  of  his  lordship's  edifying  monologue.  He  harped 
on  the  Massingdale  business;  deplored  the  fact  that  his 
duty  had  compelled  him  to  act  in  it;  and  let  me  have  a 
full  quarter  of  an  hour  of  unctuous  drivel  about  young 
lives  ruined,  stray  sheep,  and  hopes  of  future  repentance, 
until  he  drove  me  out  of  the  house  in  a  mood  of  violent 
anger  against  a  man  whose  food  I  had  eaten. 

After  that  Magram-Coke  became  a  perfect  nightmare 
to  me;  I  could  not  escape  from  the  man's  smooth, 
saintly  face;  I  imagine  that  I  saw  him,  on  an  average, 
once  a  fortnight.  He  procured  me  a  brief,  which  did 
me  a  lot  of  good,  besides  bringing  me  in  the  fee  at  which 
it  was  marked ;  I  did  not  realise  at  the  time  that  I  owed 
it  to  him,  I  fancied  that  it  was  brought  to  me  in  a  perfectly 


A  Bishop  and  an  Artist  163 

ordinary  fashion,  but  I  discovered  afterwards  that  he 
had  given  the  solicitors  a  hint — he  was  interested  in  the 
case — on  which  they  acted.  Had  I  known  all  about  it 
I  think  that  I  should  have  refused  the  thing,  good  as  it 
was,  in  order  to  be  quit  of  any  appearance  of  being 
indebted  to  him.  He  never  pestered  me  with  any  of  his 
professional  charities  or  good  works,  and  he  always 
treated  me  with  a  rather  obvious  deference,  which, 
coming  from  a  man  so  much  my  senior  and  in  such  a 
far  more  prominent  position,  caused  me  a  good  deal  of 
speculation.  One  afternoon  in  the  following  January 
he  came  to  me  in  my  chambers,  with  a  request  that  I 
should  get  him,  and  a  young  niece  of  his,  a  seat  at 
the  Central  Criminal  Courts,  in  order  to  hear  a  case 
tried.  I  was  exceedingly  rude  to  the  man,  being  both 
busy  and  altogether  sick  of  him.  I  began  by  asking 
him  whether  he  preferred  a  murder  trial,  or  whether 
he  had  not  mistaken  the  court  and  really  wished  to 
hear  an  amusing  divorce  suit;  then  without  giving  him 
the  time  to  answer,  I  told  him  that  I  did  not  like 
helping  to  make  the  administration  of  justice  a  pub- 
lic spectacle,  that  I  was  sorry  but  I  could  not  help 
him.  Although  I  am  quite  aware  that  my  attitude 
must  have  appeared  both  bombastic  and  ridiculous, 
besides  being  gratuitously  rude  to  a  man  much  older 
than  myself,  he  showed  no  sign  of  offence;  apologised 
for  having  encountered  one  of  my  principles;  and 
assured  me  that  I  had  opened  his  eyes  to  the  true  aspect 
of  something  that  he  had  hitherto  condoned.  I  felt, 
and  I  am  quite  willing  to  suppose  that  I  looked,  a  fool; 
I  learned  later  that  he  attended  a  trial  for  murder  and, 
I  give  a  junior  counsel's  gossip,  appeared  highly  inter- 
ested in  the  whole  proceeding.  I  also  discovered,  some 
five  days  afterwards,  the  reason  of  his  goodwill  on  my 


164  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

account:  he  imagined  that  I  was  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  a  member  of  the  Cabinet,  who  had  been  a  close 
friend  of  my  father.  I  had,  it  is  true ,  dined  with  the 
gentleman  in  question  perhaps  once  a  year  since  my 
father's  death;  beyond  that  I  could  not  be  said  to  know 
him,  and  had  about  as  much  influence  with  him  as  with 
the  Grand  Mogul.  Yet,  I  understand,  Cabinets  make 
Suffragan  Bishops  into  Prelates  of  greater  dignity,  and 
without  doubt  the  poor  man  was  not  willing  to  miss 
a  single  chance;  therefore,  I  avoided  him  with  greater 
care  than  before;  I  gave  my  clerk  orders  to  say  that  I 
was  out,  if  he  should  happen  to  call  at  my  chambers; 
and  I  did  not  enlighten  him  as  to  my  relations  with  the 
politician.  It  was  just  as  well,  in  my  opinion,  that  he 
should  waste  his  time  on  a  wild  goose  chase;  I  have  no 
liking  for  gratuitous  interference,  and  it  stuck  in  my 
mind  that  he  was  responsible  for  the  fact  that  I  no  longer 
had  Massingdale  as  my  neighbour  in  Brick  Court. 

Early  in  February  I  had  a  letter  from  Loissel  announc- 
ing his  arrival  in  London  in  the  course  of  the  next  week. 
I  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  the  old  man,  and  I  wrote 
urging  him  to  be  my  guest ;  I  also  wrote  to  Massingdale 
asking  him  to  try  to  induce  the  old  artist  to  come  to  me. 
Our  joint  efforts  were  successful,  and  Loissel  promised 
to  make  my  rooms  his  headquarters  for  a  week.  He  was 
fully  occupied,  and  I  did  not  see  very  much  of  him  except 
in  the  early  morning  and  late  at  night,  but  I  made  the 
most  of  such  occasions,  and  was  delighted  to  discover 
in  him  a  man  who  styled  one  of  the  morning  an  early 
hour  at  which  to  go  to  bed.  He  had  travelled  a  great 
deal,  had  sailed,  I  fancy,  every  navigable  sea,  and  he 
spoke  many  languages;  in  addition,  he  was  an  excellent 
talker,  and  looked  out  upon  the  world  with  a  kindly, 
laughing  toleration.  Therefore,  I  hold  the  hours  that  he 


A  Bishop  and  an  Artist       .     165 

and  I  spent  together  in  my  rooms,  comfortably  settled 
before  the  fire,  with  London  growing  quiet  about  us, 
occasions  which  I  am  not  likely  to  forget. 

Although  he  said  very  little  about  Massingdale,  and 
I  did  not  press  the  subject,  I  gathered  that  he  was 
anxious  to  meet  Joan  Onnington;  so  I  got  my  aunt  to 
send  him  an  invitation  for  the  week-end,  which  he 
accepted.  From  the  moment  of  his  entry  into  Elsing- 
ham  Hall  he  established  himself  as  a  friend  of  the 
Onnington  family;  and  during  dinner  on  Saturday 
evening,  and  afterwards  into  the  small  hours,  my  uncle 
held  him  in  talk  about  the  sea,  of  which  Loissel  always 
spoke  as  of  a  thing  he  loved  beyond  praise.  "My 
countrymen  do  not  understand  it,"  he  told  us,  "they 
have  mistaken  what  it  is.  When  I  read  Hugo,  I  am 
inclined  to  weep  at  his  mistakes.  Les  Travailleurs  de 
la  Mer — but  it  is  all  wrong!  With  him,  with  Hugo, 
it  is  the  cruelty  of  the  sea,  its  remorselessness  that  fills 
his  mind.  And  with  the  others  the  same  thing;  all, 
yes,  all  of  them,  speak  chiefly  of  this  cruelty,  this  great 
force  without  pity.  But  the  sea  is  not  cruel,  only  un- 
relenting, calm,  and  very  strong.  It  is  that  strength, 
so  quiet,  so  resistless,  which  even  in  its  anger  is  never 
impotent  with  rage,  that  should  attract  the  mind.  Man 
Dieu,  it  is  not  cruel,  the  sea,  only  stern,  and  no  lover 
of  any  weakness." 

He  had  spent  many  years  as  a  young  man  shipping 
as  purser  or  as  steward,  voyaging  in  cargo  tramps  of 
all  classes  and  of  all  nations,  in  order  that  he  might 
come  to  some  real  understanding  of  the  thing  he  loved 
so  much,  yet  not  wishing,  he  informed  us,  to  spoil  his 
hands  with  the  work  of  an  able  seaman.  What  hard- 
ships and  what  poverty  he  had  undergone  I  do  not 
know;  he  seldom  spoke  about  himself,  but  that  he 


1 66  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

had  seen  plenty  of  both  there  could  be  no  kind  of 
doubt. 

He  was  of  peasant  origin,  a  fact  which  he  neither 
hid  nor  advertised;  and  from  a  small  farm  to  a  first 
place  among  French  artists,  from  obscurity  to  fame, 
from  the  peasant's  blouse  to  a  coat  glittering  with  orders, 
is  a  long  road,  and  for  much  of  the  way  rough  going. 

As  Admiral  Onnington  and  I  stood  in  the  hall  that 
night,  lighting  our  candles,  I  obtained  some  idea  of 
the  impression  that  Loissel  had  made. 

"Confound  it,"  said  my  uncle,  "if  I  had  not  taken 
such  a  fancy  to  your  great  artist  friend,  I  should  be 
furious  with  the  fellow.  He  has  knocked  all  the  conceit 
out  of  me,  and  I  thought  I  was  fairly  secure  at  my  time 
of  life.  I  've  sailed  the  sea  for  a  good  many  years, 
and — damme — I  believe  I  've  had  my  eyes  shut  the 
whole  time. " 

With  that  he  went  off  to  bed,  apparently  very  well 
pleased  in  spite  of  the  loss  of  his  self-conceit. 

The  next  day  Joan,  Loissel,  and  I  set  out  in  the  morn- 
ing for  a  long  walk,  to  have  a  look  at  the  country  in 
the  daylight.  The  day  was  clear  and  bright,  with  a 
touch  of  frost  in  the  air,  but  the  sun  so  warm  that  we 
seemed  already  arrived  at  spring.  Loissel  had  never 
seen  our  eastern  counties,  had  heard  them  much  decried 
as  flat,  misty,  and  without  charm,  and  had  expected 
little  better ;  so  that  as  we  tramped  on  our  way,  touching 
the  real  fenlands,  and  working  back  again  into  the 
undulating  country  of  south-east  Cambridgeshire,  he 
condemned  his  informants  as  purblind  fools.  Beyond 
that,  he  made  few  comments  on  the  scene,  spoke  very 
little  of  his  art,  and  was  as  far  from  boring  us  with  any 
polite  rhapsodies  as  any  man  could  be.  Occasionally, 
as  he  swung  along  with  the  free  stride  of  a  man  half  his 


A  Bishop  and  an  Artist  167 

years,  his  hat  in  one  hand,  and  his  pipe,  as  likely  as  not, 
waving  to  his  remarks  in  the  other,  he  would  pull  up  and 
look  about  him.  "They  are  good,"  he  would  tell  us, 
"  your  fens.  They  are  wide — wide.  There  is  space  here ; 
one  is  not  crowded."  Then  we  would  go  on  tramping 
again,  discussing  many  subjects  with  much  freedom. 
He  hailed  every  child  that  he  met;  and  at  the  inn  where 
we  lunched  he  collected  a  swarm  of  them  about  him, 
and  his  broken  English  neither  made  them  laugh  nor 
stopped  their  tongues.  Upon  Joan,  I  am  certain,  he 
made  a  very  deep  impression,  and  that  he,  on  his  part, 
had  formed  no  small  liking  for  the  girl  seemed  equally 
apparent,  so  that  the  three  of  us  found  ourselves  very 
well  content,  and  our  talk  flowed  without  restraint. 

About  four  o'clock  we  got  to  Balsham,  and  took  the 
Hildersham  road  until  we  came  to  the  Roman  way; 
there  we  turned  off  to  the  right,  where  the  track  leads 
sharply  to  the  top  of  a  knoll.  Loissel  halted  as  we 
got  to  the  summit. 

"You  treat  my  age  with  small  respect,  mademoiselle, " 
he  laughed.  "You  take  me  up  these  local  mountains 
as  if  I  had  your  youth.  You  forget  that  I  am  old,  and 
very  fat." 

"I  certainly  had  forgotten  that,"  said  Joan,  with  the 
appearance  of  much  contrition.  "I  am  so  sorry;  but  I 
can  hardly  remember  it  even  now. " 

"You  only  flatter  me  in  this  way,"  he  told  her, 
"because  you  think  that  I  am  so  old  that  I  shall  no 
longer  attempt  to  give  you  back  your  compliments. 
Beware,  mademoiselle;  I  shall  begin  to  pester  you  with 
attentions.  I  am  not  blind;  and  I  shall  argue  that 
you  have  led  me  on. " 

Joan  promised  that  she  would  deal  gently  with  him 
and  we  stood  a  moment  silent,  looking  at  the  view 


168  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

before  us.  The  sun  had  gone  down  behind  the  hills 
ahead,  leaving  them  outlined  against  the  glowing  red, 
the  trees  upon  the  crest  black  and  delicate  like  fine 
and  ragged  lace.  The  sky  was  without  a  cloud,  and 
wide  above  us;  the  night  had  turned  cold,  and  a  wind, 
that  left  the  mists  in  the  hollows  undisturbed,  blew 
quietly.  The  whole  countryside  was  still,  heavy  and 
sleeping,  resting  gladly,  it  would  seem,  after  its  short 
day  of  talk  about  the  summer,  without  any  stir  of  birds 
or  insects,  moved  to  no  bustle  of  retiring  as  the  sun 
went  down. 

When  we  had  watched  this  scene  some  moments, 
we  moved  on  down  the  track,  picking  our  way  as  the 
light  began  to  fade.  Joan  was  the  first  to  speak,  after 
we  had  walked  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  more,  and  her 
thoughts  still  wandered,  I  fancy,  round  the  sight  that 
we  had  left. 

"I  think,"  she  announced,  "that  it  is  quite  right  that 
men  who  can  make  beautiful  things,  sights,  or  sounds, 
or  ideas,  live  again  for  others,  should  be  admired  and 
respected.  Artists  of  any  kind  are  wonderful  people." 

Loissel  looked  at  her  in  enquiry,  and  seemed  to  hesitate 
at  his  reply.  Then  : 

"Surely  you  jest,  mademoiselle?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  quite  serious,"  Joan  assured  him.  "Don't 
you  agree  with  me?" 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  spreading  out 
his  hands,  and  his  words  came  with  unexpected  vehe- 
mence. 

" Mon  Dieu,  no!  Honour  the  works  if  they  are  worth 
it,  guard  them  with  care,  read  them  often,  delight  in 
the  sound  of  them.  But  the  men — that  is  a  different 
affair.  Why  should  you  admire  and  respect  them?" 

"Because   men   who   do   great   things   ought   to   be 


A  Bishop  and  an  Artist  169 

admired  and  honoured.  They  deserve  thanks,  and 
respect  is  the  best  expression  of  the  ordinary  man's 
thanks." 

Joan's  voice  sounded  astonished,  and,  I  thought, 
touching  on  indignation. 

"  They  get  paid  for  their  work  like  other  men,"  Loissel 
answered,  with  a  scorn  that  I  had  not  heard  him  use 
before.  "Believe  me,  mademoiselle,  the  world  is  very 
much  inclined  to  praise  the  artist  beyond  his  merit, 
to  call  him  a  fine  fellow  when  it  knows  that  he  is  not. 
We  have  already  far  too  much  conceit.  Instead  of  a 
just  criticism  of  our  work,  we  find  a  great  deal  of  in- 
difference, politely  concealed,  for  the  art,  and  foolish 
petting  and  spoiling  for  the  man.  We  grow  worse  and 
worse." 

"Why  do  you  say  this?"  cried  Joan,  and  there  was 
no  longer  any  doubt  of  her  indignation. 

"I  only  say  the  truth,"  Loissel  assured  her.  "Your 
artist,  what  is  he?  A  man  who  has  some  work  to  do  in 
life.  If  he  does  his  work  well,  that  is  good;  but  he  is 
not  different  from  other  men  who  also  perform  with 
success  in  the  business  of  their  lives.  What  does  he  do, 
your  artist?  He  is  not  content  with  his  work  to  do  it 
quietly,  he  proclaims  to  the  world  that  he  has  a  tempera- 
ment, and  the  world  gapes  at  him  and  says  that  a 
temperament  is  surely  a  very  fine  thing,  and  the  man  who 
has  it  a  wonderful  fellow.  Perhaps  he  believes  in  his 
temperament — I  think  he  does — but  the  world  should 
not  help  him  to  make  a  god  of  it.  He  comes  to  despise 
these  others — these  men  without  this  wonderful  quality ; 
he  will  imagine  that  they  are  different  to  himself  and 
much  inferior.  When  he  does  something  that  they  do  not 
like  he  styles  them  fools,  and  he  goes  on  doing  the  thing 
because  he  is  certain  that  these  others  must  be  wrong. 


170  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

Oh,  this  temperament  of  the  artist,  it  is  a  wonderful 
thing,  a  fine  excuse  for  all  manner  of  foolishness  and 
wrong!" 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it, "  Joan  interposed,  staring 
ahead  of  her  with  angry  eyes.  "Why  should  you  blame 
them  because  they  are  different  to  other  men?  You 
would  scorn  them  if  they  were  conventional. " 

The  painter  took  no  notice  of  her  anger;  his  voice 
was  quiet  and  thoughtful,  and  he  seemed  to  be  con- 
vinced of  his  point. 

"  I  do  not  blame  them,"  he  continued,  "I  pity  them. 
I  pity  myself,  mademoiselle.  I  ask  that  the  world,  you 
others  who  admire  our  work,  should  treat  us  as  you 
would  if  we  did  other  things.  To  go  against  the  con- 
ventions of  society,  when  your  place  is  among  men, 
is  no  virtue  in  itself.  When  an  ordinary  man  offends 
these  laws  of  society,  he  is  punished  by  loss  of  standing 
among  his  neighbours;  when  an  artist  does  the  same 
thing  he  does  not  suffer.  It  is  his  temperament,  you 
say — he  cannot  help  it,  he  is  different  from  other  men, 
and  he  gains  credit  for  his  unconventionally,  because 
it  is  expected  from  him.  Then,  mademoiselle,  one  fine 
day  your  artist  does  something  that  is  not  expected  from 
him,  something,  perhaps,  that  may  seem  to  you  to  go 
too  far,  and  at  once  you  forget  that  he  has  a  tempera- 
ment, and  you  blame  him  for  what  he  has  done.  But 
the  poor  man  has  only  followed  his  usual  course,  he  has 
acted  on  his  own  advice,  as  he  has  done  before,  and  he 
cannot  understand  why  you  blame  him.  His  fault 
is  probably  not  grave — to  him  it  is,  very  likely,  a  little 
thing — but  he  has  found  the  one  convention  that  he 
must  not  override,  and  he  is  punished. " 

Loissel  was  silent,  but  Joan  did  not  answer  him.  She 
gave  no  sign  of  her  feelings,  and  it  was  too  dark  to  see 


A  Bishop  and  an  Artist  171 

her  face.    Seeing  that  she  did  not  answer,  the  old  man 
continued  in  his  steady,  kindly  voice : 

"It  is  not  just,  mademoiselle,  it  is  not  wise,  the  way 
you  treat  us.  There  should  be  less  mention  of  this 
temperament,  or,  if  it  must  be  mentioned,  then  more 
understanding.  A  butcher  has  a  temperament,  though 
possibly  of  a  less  interesting  nature  than  that  of  the 
artist,  but  I  have  never  yet  heard  it  suggested  that  a 
butcher  should  be  encouraged  to  walk  among  his  fellows 
with  pounds  of  good  beef  hanging  about  his  neck. 
Why,  then,  do  you  encourage  us,  artists,  to  exhibit 
our  wares?  Why  do  you  allow  us  to  bring  our  moods 
with  us  when  we  come  amongst  you?  You  urge  us 
on  to  dance  before  you,  possibly  because  we  are  puppets 
that  amuse  you,  but  when  our  dance  becomes  natural, 
when  we  no  longer  pose  before  you  but  show  our  real 
.selves  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment  then — how  do 
you  say  it? — we  have  overstayed  our  welcome,  you  are 
no  longer  pleased  with  us.  That  is  why  so  often  we 
make  fools  of  ourselves,  why,  very  frequently,  the  artist 
appears  in  the  light  of  a  conceited  mountebank.  It 
would  be  better,  I  am  sure  of  it,  mademoiselle,  better 
for  you,  and  much,  much  better  for  us,  if  you  would 
treat  us  just  like  other  men.  Forget  these  moods  which 
we  show,  do  not  remember  that  we  have  this  tempera- 
ment, and  treat  us  as  those  others  whose  work  in  the 
world  is  not  less  valuable  than  ours.  The  artist  has  many 
temptations.  He  lives  so  much  in  a  world  that  is  not 
real  that  often,  without  any  encouragement,  he  is  tempted 
to  forget  that  the  things  about  him  are  more  alive  than 
those  which  he  creates;  yet  when,  through  his  own 
foolishness  and  through  that  of  the  men  about  him,  he 
is  shut  out  from  the  real  things  to  dwell  in  his  own 
world,  then,  very  often,  he  suffers  much  unhappiness. 


172  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

I  would  ask  you,  mademoiselle,  for  the  sake  of  myself 
and  these  other  foolish  men,  my  fellows,  to  think  more 
of  the  work,  less  of  the  man.  It  is  a  good  work  which 
we  do — for  me  it  is  the  only  work — but  to  do  it  well  is 
no  more  wonderful,  no  more  to  be  admired  than  the 
doing  well  of  any  other  thing  that  demands  skill  and 
thought  and  loving  care." 

I  had  listened  to  him  with  interest,  and  when  he  had 
finished  I  walked  in  silence,  thinking  of  what  he  had 
said  and  seeing  many  meanings  in  it.  Joan  said  nothing, 
but  walked  beside  him  in  the  dark,  keeping  her  own 
counsel.  As  we  turned  into  the  park,  he  spoke  again, 
in  a  voice  that  was  full  of  laughter  and  apology. 

"I  am  an  old  fool,"  he  told  us.  "I  begin  to  lecture; 
I  am  surely  come  to  old  age.  You  must  forgive  me, 
my  friends ;  I  forget  myself  when  I  speak  of  this  subject. 
And  now  we  are  certainly  late  for  tea,  your  nice  English, 
tea  with  the  hot  cakes.  I  am  desolate. " 

His  great  rolling  laugh  sounded  gently,  but  Joan 
seemed  to  take  him  at  his  word,  and  was  urgent  with 
protests. 

"No,  no!"  she  cried,  and  I  could  imagine  her  very 
serious,  "you  must  not  think  we  were  not  interested. 
I  should  have  answered  you;  it  was  very  rude.  But 
you  showed  me  so  many  new  things  that  I  had  no 
reply  ready.  Please  don't  imagine  that  I  was  not 
interested." 

Loissel  chuckled  to  himself. 

"You  do  not  know  me,  mademoiselle,"  he  assured 
her.  "I  am  a  very  conceited  old  man.  I  did  not 
think  you  were  offended." 

We  were,  as  Loissel  had  foreseen,  late  for  tea,  but 
we  got  the  hot  cakes  before  they  had  grown  cold. 

The  following  afternoon,  as  we  journeyed  back  to 


A  Bishop  and  an  Artist  173 

London,  I  asked  a  question  that  had  been  puzzling 
me. 

"I  thought,"  I  suggested,  "that  you  were  anxious 
to  leave  matters  alone.  Surely  your  talk  yesterday 
afternoon  about  temperament  and  its  reception  was 
intended  to  refer  to  such  cases  as  Massingdale?" 

The  old  man  sat  back  in  his  corner,  smiling  at  me 
in  content. 

"So  you  can  add  up  little  figures  and  make  the  total 
right,"  he  answered.  "But  yes,  my  friend,  I  had  that 
intention.  I  gave  a  suggestion.  Hein!  But  she  will 
not  know  my  meaning;  she  will  be  puzzled,  your  little 
cousin.  And  when  a  woman  is  puzzled,  she  tries  to  find 
the  answer  to  the  puzzle.  She  will  think  of  our  friend 
Louis ;  she  is  not  sure  whether  I  think  him  wrong  or  not, 
but  she  will  think  of  him.  That  is  what  I  want. " 

"But  is  this  leaving  the  matter  alone?"  I  asked, 
not  seeing  his  object. 

"  I  like  your  cousin,"  he  replied,  ignoring  my  question. 
"I  think  that  she  would  make  a  good  wife,  when  she 
is  grown  up.  Eh,  bien!  I  could  not  resist  the  chance 
of  making  her  think  a  little  more  of  this  boy  who  loves 
her.  Perhaps,  I  do  not  know,  she  might  come  to  under- 
stand him;  if  she  remains  persuaded  that  she  has  ever 
done  so,  that  becomes  impossible.  But,  no  word  of 
anything  to  him;  for  him  the  thing  is  past,  hopeless. 
We  are  agreed?" 

"Yes, "  I  assented.  "  But  is  it  fair  to  bring  the  matter 
up  again;  ought  not  she,  also,  to  be  left  alone?" 

"Oh!  as  for  that,"  he  told  me,  "I  have  no  scruple. 
He  is  worth  a  little  suffering,  that  boy. " 

He  broke  the  silence  again,  a  little  later,  saying  his 
last  word  on  the  matter. 

"Si  la  jeunesse  savait!"  he  sighed.     "If  in  this  love 


i?4  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

of  youth  there  was  a  little  understanding,  a  small  idea 
of  what  life  means,  would  it  be  better?" 

The  question  being  one  which  I  could  not  answer, 
we  talked  of  other  things. 

Loissel  went  back  to  Paris  two  days  afterwards, 
and  I  was  for  some  time  without  any  news  from  that 
pleasant  city.  At  Easter  I  had  intended  going  over 
for  a  week,  but  circumstances  preventing  me,  I  saw 
nothing  more  of  Massingdale  for  some  time  to  come. 


CHAPTER  X 

WHICH    SHOWS    SOME    ASPECTS    OF    A    WANDERING    LIFE, 
TOGETHER   WITH   OTHER   MATTERS 

SOMETIME  in  June  of  that  year  I  induced  Massing- 
dale  to  break  a  silence  that  had  lasted  more  than 
a  couple  of  months ;  but  when  his  letter  came  it  brought 
me  no  good  news.  He  wrote  from  the  Hotel  Dieu,  in  a 
perfectly  cheerful  vein,  which  meant,  in  his  case,  nothing, ' 
and  in  a  handwriting  more  illegible  than  usual. 

"You  behold,"  he  informed  me,  "or  you  might  do  so 
if  you  stood  in  this  somewhat  cheerless  barrack,  an 
interesting  invalid,  a  convalescent  about  to  quit  the 
couch  of  sickness,  the  victim,  sir,  of  one  of  those  deplor- 
able motor  accidents  that  are  daily  becoming  more 
frequent.  One  fine  day,  about  three  weeks  ago,  the  fat 
Auguste  and  I  should  be  imagined  taking  the  air  upon 
the  Place  du  Parvis -Notre- Dame,  engaged  in  the  en- 
grossing occupation  of  determining  the  aspect  of  the 
old  Parvis.  We  walked,  entirely  lost  to  our  surround- 
ings, about  the  middle  of  the  square,  and  we  reconstructed 
the  old  buildings  with  many  expressive  gestures  of  the 
arms.  As  you  are  aware,  no  man  can  suitably  conduct 
such  a  business  without  becoming  erratic  in  his  progress, 
without  forgetting,  if  there  be  a  soul  within  him,  that 
vehicles  exist.  For  us,  at  the  moment,  the  whole 


176  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

development  of  vehicular  traffic,  the  long  centuries  of 
evolution,  had  been  in  vain.  There  was  a  hoot — we  had 
been  walking  and  had  stopped  short  with  some  sudden- 
ness— a  shout,  the  noise  of  levers  and  other  mechanical 
devices  being  violently  applied.  'Sauve  toi,'  cries 
Auguste,  making  an  attempt  to  catch  me  by  the  arm; 
and  I  was  caught  amidships  by  an  elegant  and  expensive 
automobile.  Here,  mon  cher,  the  lights  go  down,  the 
incidental  music  becomes  mournful,  and  the  faces  of 
the  crowd  are  seen  to  whiten.  Behold!  the  poor  gentle- 
man is  upon  the  ground,  obviously  no  longer  at  his  ease, 
and  his  faithful  companion  heartbroken  and  filled  with 
rage.  A  car  is  a  bad  thing  to  hit,  tough  and  insensible; 
I  had  the  worst  of  the  encounter,  a  broken  leg,  some  ribs 
stove  in,  and  many  bruises,  but  nothing  either  interest- 
ing or  serious.  Auguste!  Auguste  was  superb.  I 
remember  that  he  spoke  with  scant  politeness  to  the 
driver.  '  Sacre  cochon  ! '  he  screamed,  his  face  transported 
to  the  higher  realms  of  woe,  '  esptce  d  'animal!  You  have 
killed  him,  you  have  killed  my  friend.  He  dies. '  With 
that  he  went  down  on  his  knees  beside  me,  the  tears 
streaming  down  his  face,  and  began  to  loosen  my  collar, 
talking  incoherently  the  while.  I  will  not  disguise  the 
horrid  truth  from  you.  I  felt  damn  bad;  but  the  sight 
of  Auguste  had  moved  a  corpse  to  laughter,  so  I  laughed, 
and  it  hurt  my  ribs  like  hell.  Up  gets  our  little  fat  man ; 
the  rdle  is  changed,  action  and  resignation  hold  the 
boards;  he  is  a  broken  man,  but  capable.  'Messieurs,' 
says  he  to  the  crowd  about  us,  and  very  solemnly  he 
removes  his  hat,  'we  will  take  him,  my  poor  friend, 
across  to  the  hospital  that  he  may  die  in  comfort  on  a 
bed.'  Since  then  I  have  been  a  fixture  in  the  H6tel 
Dieu,  but  hope  to  leave  the  place  in  a  few  days. 

"I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  authorities  of  the 


Aspects  of  a  Wandering  Life        177 

hospital  are  divided  between  mirth  and  resentment  at 
the  behaviour  of  the  good  Auguste.  When  he  had  been 
informed  that  the  case  would  not  come  up  to  his  expecta- 
tions, that  death  had  no  part  in  it,  and  that  a  few  weeks 
would  see  me  about  again,  he  flew,  I  am  informed,  to  the 
opposite  extreme  of  emotion;  congratulated  every  one 
about  him ;  praised  the  skill  of  the  resident  surgeon  in  no 
measured  fashion;  referred  incoherently  to  the  Cross 
of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  for  whom  it  is  not  known ;  was 
told  that  he  could  not  see  me  until  later;  and  departed 
in  a  great  state  of  excitement.  Within  a  couple  of  hours 
he  had  Loissel  and  Yvonne  Carrel  at  my  bedside,  and  I 
should  judge  from  their  manner  that  they  had  expected 
to  see  the  battered  remnants  of  a  man,  living  but  robbed 
of  all  future  hope  of  activity  or  even  movement. 
Loissel  would  have  had  me  brought  to  his  flat,  but  I  was 
against  it  and  so  was  the  surgeon  fellow;  Yvonne  said 
little,  but  I  am  embowered  amid  the  flowers  that  she 
has  sent  me;  and  Auguste  sat  patting  my  hand,  a  very 
picture  of  foolishness,  and  announced  his  intention  of 
bringing  Marellac  to  play  to  me,  a  thing  he  has  not  been 
allowed  to  do. 

"For  the  last  three  weeks  I  have  daily  held  a  levee: 
Auguste  is  always  here;  not  seldom  Loissel  or  Yvonne; 
and  from  time  to  time  others  whipped  up  by  the  inde- 
fatigable fat  man.  Blinkson  comes  regularly  twice  a 
week,  and  is  always  sober  when  he  comes;  each  time  he 
brings  me  a  book,  chosen  in  a  fashion  beyond  praise, 
so  that  I  think  that  when  I  am  about  again  I  shall  allow 
him  to  guide  me  in  my  reading.  He  is  a  fine  wreck  of  a 
man,  Dick,  come  upon  the  rocks  and  going  fast  to  pieces; 
you  do  not  like  him,  but  you  would  if  you  saw  more  of 
him. 

"I  laugh  at  all  these  good  people,  a  sick  man  is  a 


i78  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

selfish,  careless  animal,  and  I  am  afraid  that,  some- 
times, I  show  that  their  solicitude  amuses  me.  Yet 
it  is  that  or  tears,  my  friend;  for  if  I  don't  laugh 
at  the  way  they  stick  by  me,  I  shall  most  certainly 
disgrace  myself  by  maudlin  sentiment.  They  do  not 
grow  on  the  hedges,  the  fat  man,  Loissel,  Yvonne,  and 
the  rest. 

"  I  did  not  write  before  because  I  knew  that  you  would 
go  one  better  than  the  rest  of  them,  and  that  I  should 
probably  receive  a  call  from  you  as  well.  If  the  thing 
had  been  a  really  serious  matter,  I  would  have  asked 
you  to  be  in  at  the  finish.  I,  moreover,  extracted  a 
solemn  and  universal  promise  that  you  should  not  be 
told  of  anything. 

"When  I  come  out,  I  go  to  Loissel  for  a  few  days.  I 
have  let  the  studio — an  economy  after  your  own  heart. 
Then — Loissel  arranged  this — I  go  to  some  villa  near 
Como,  to  paint  a  fresco  for  the  owner.  Fame,  fortune, 
riches ! ! 

"Having  so  many  famous  and  influential  friends,  I 
am  allowed  many  privileges  here.  I  already  hobble 
about.  If  you  were  fool  enough  to  come  here  to  visit 
me,  I  should  be  very  rude  and  altogether  unsociable. 
Write  instead — a  better  proceeding  for  all  parties. " 

I  was  fool  enough  to  go  and  see  him,  and  I  was  some- 
what annoyed  that  he  had  not  sent  for  me  before.  I 
went  over  to  Paris  for  a  week-end,  informing  him  of  my 
intention  by  wire,  and  asking  him  to  let  me  know,  by 
the  same  means  of  communication,  addressing  his  answer 
to  Boulogne  to  meet  the  boat,  whether  he  was  still  in 
hospital.  His  reply  was,  possibly,  a  source  of  amusement 
to  some  jaded  telegraph  clerk  possessing  a  knowledge  of 
English.  It  ran : 


Aspects  of  a  Wandering  Life        179 

"Inimitable  idiot.  Wasteful  and  extravagant  fool. 
217  bis  Boulevard  Haussmann.  You  put  up  there." 

A  clear  waste  of  six  words  which  he  could  no  more 
help  than  I  could  avoid  going  to  visit  him. 

He  had  all  the  appearance  of  convalescence,  and  was 
the  temporary  possessor  of  a  pair  of  crutches,  which  he 
used  with  no  skill  at  all,  yet  he  proclaimed  himself 
perfectly  well,  announced  that  he  thought  of  nothing 
at  all  but  the  next  occasion  on  which  he  could  eat, 
and  was  in  excellent  spirits.  I  discovered  that  he  had 
had  a  very  narrow  escape,  and  had,  in  reality,  been 
rather  badly  knocked  about;  but  that  the  accident  was 
unquestionably  his  own  fault;  Auguste  Vanne  gave 
me  an  account  of  it  which  did  not  lack  fire,  which, 
moreover,  was  a  miracle  of  effective  gesture. 

I  could  not  stop  with  Loissel  more  than  a  couple  of 
days,  although  he  tried  to  keep  me  longer,  and  during 
that  time  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  whatever 
Massingdale  had  lost  in  leaving  England,  he  had  cer- 
tainly gained  some  friends  in  Paris  to  whom  the  name 
was  not  misapplied.  We  had  no  serious  talk,  he  and  I, 
but  I  learned  that  he  was  full  of  hopes,  partly  justified, 
and  that  his  worldly  goods  amounted  to  little  more  than 
twenty  pounds,  his  artist  materials,  and  a  wardrobe 
that  was  neither  well  equipped  nor  fashionable.  After 
I  had  left  him,  standing  upon  his  crutches  at  the  door 
of  Loissel's  flat  and  enlarging  upon  my  folly  in  coming 
to  see  him,  which  thing  he  had  forgotten,  so  he  told  me, 
until  that  moment,  I  saw  no  more  of  him  for  something 
over  a  year. 

He  went,  as  he  had  intended,  to  the  villa  near  Como; 
was  there  some  two  months  or  more,  living  in  the 
neighbouring  village;  and  adorned  the  villa  to  the 
satisfaction,  I  believe,  of  both  the  owner  and  himself. 


i8o  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

Then,  until  Christmas,  he  was  in  Rome,  doing,  as  far 
as  I  could  gather  from  his  letters,  the  work  of  a  student, 
and  it  has  always  been  a  mystery  to  me  how  he  managed 
to  live  during  those  months;  that  he  was  often  hungry 
I  afterwards  had  proof.  Finally,  a  few  days  before 
Christmas,  he  was  back  again  in  Paris,  in  a  much  smaller 
studio,  in  the  Rue  Cortot,  with  no  fair  view  of  Paris 
from  his  windows.  In  this  studio,  where  I  have  reason 
to  believe  he  dwelt  in  great  poverty,  he  remained  until 
the  late  spring,  but  as  I  never  saw  the  place,  something 
always  occurring  to  prevent  my  paying  him  a  visit, 
I  cannot  give  any  description  of  it. 

I  cannot  imagine  that  this  is  the  place  to  quote  his 
letters  at  any  length,  they  were  often  of  a  description 
that  seems  to  me  better  kept  to  the  sole  knowledge  of 
the  man  to  whom  they  were  written,  and  by  that  I  mean 
that  they  were  full  of  casual  gossip  about  himself  and 
his  surroundings,  which  I  am  determined  to  guard  as 
intimate  talk  between  friends;  yet  this,  at  least,  I  will 
say  of  them,  they  always,  with  one  single  exception, 
maintained  the  same  note  of  cheerfulness,  and  they  dealt 
very  much  with  his  hopes  of  artistic  achievement. 

At  the  villa  near  Como  I  gathered  that  he  was  with- 
out friends  and  somewhat  lonely,  although  much  pleased 
at  the  fulfilment  of  his  first  commission.  Soon  after 
his  arrival  in  Rome  I  had  amusing  news  from  him,  some 
of  which  I  shall  quote. 

"My  excellent  friend,"  he  wrote,  in  the  course  of  a 
long  letter,  "I  stand  upon  the  summit  of  achievement,  no 
more  is  left  for  me  to  do  in  life;  I  have  fought  a  duel! 
I  still  ache  with  laughter  that  I  had  thought  inextin- 
guishable. Here  is  the  absurd  tale.  I  was  seated  the 
other  night  in  a  small  drinking-shop  which  I  frequent, 


Aspects  of  a  Wandering  Life        181 

enjoying  the  company  of  several  worthy  persons  of  a 
like  persuasion  to  myself,  one  of  whom  was  a  tall, 
sallow-faced,  cadaverous  Belgian  of  an  absurdly  pompous 
turn  of  mind.  We  discussed  international  politics — a 
not  less  loathsome  subject  than  the  affairs  of  any  par- 
ticular nation.  The  discussion  grew  warm  and  loud, 
and  the  Belgian — Renier  is  his  name — louder  and  warmer 
than  the  rest  of  us.  '  It  is  well  known, '  cried  he,  at  last, 
'that  the  English  have  no  political  faith  or  honour, 
that  they  will  face  about  if  they  can  gain  two  sous' 
worth  of  advantage.'  Possibly,  Dick,  I  do  not  know, 
we  have  earned  some  such  reputation  among  the  ignor- 
ant; with  the  justification  of  this  indictment  I  do  not 
concern  myself  a  damn, — I  will  not  have  people  say  it. 
'Monsieur,'  I  answered,  'you  lie,  moreover,  you  lie 
like  an  ignorant  fool. '  He  sprang  from  his  chair  at  that. 
'You  intend  to  insult  me?'  he  stuttered.  'Not  a  doubt 
of  it,'  said  I.  'I  do.'  Thereupon  he  grows  quite  polite, 
says  that  I  shall  hear  from  him,  and  goes  out  of  the  cafS. 
We  fought  next  day,  mon  cher,  and  the  affair  was  comic 
opera  from  start  to  finish.  We  hired  the  swords, 
borrowed  'em  from  a  pawnshop,  and  they  were  infernal 
heavy,  an  extra  weight  of  cavalry  sabre,  I  should  imagine. 
Every  one  was  prodigious  solemn  over  the  encounter, 
the  formalities  caused  me  eternal  delight;  there  was 
only  one  thing  clear  from  the  start,  we  must  on  no  account 
do  any  serious  harm  to  one  another.  In  the  second  bout 
I  was  scratched  upon  the  wrist,  honour  was  satisfied, 
and  we  shook  hands.  You  may  laugh,  but  I  '11  be  shot 
if  you  laugh  as  much  as  I  did.  God  help  us  all,  it 's 
a  funny  world,  and  duelling — as  I  know  it — better  than  a 
roaring  farce !  I  don't  expect  for  a  moment  that  you  will 
believe  me,  yet  the  thing  is  true,  you  have  my  oath  to  it, 
from  the  time  that  I  got  up  that  morning  until  I  was  on 


1 82  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

the  ground,  when  the  farce  of  the  whole  thing  was 
established,  I  felt  in  a  blue  funk.  The  kind  gods  grant 
I  did  not  show  it — I  think  that  I  did  not!  The  heroic 
mould  was,  doubtless,  not  at  hand  when  I  was  fashioned." 

Some  years  after  the  event,  I  met  one  of  the  men 
who  had  performed  the  duties  of  second  for  Massingdale 
on  the  occasion  of  his  first,  and,  I  believe,  his  only  duel. 
The  description  of  the  encounter  which  I,  then,  was 
given  certainly  supported  Massingdale's  tale,  that  the 
affair  was  comic  opera;  the  narrator,  moreover,  showed 
that  the  gods  had  been  kind,  and  that  the  true  state 
of  mind  of  one  of  the  combatants  went  undiscovered. 
He  assured  me  that  he  had  come  near  to  being  nervous, 
since  Massingdale's  amusement  appeared  such  that 
there  seemed  some  chance  that  he  would  get  hurt  out 
of  sheer  carelessness. 

But  Massingdale's  life  was  not,  I  have  reason  to 
suppose,  altogether  a  matter  for  laughter,  and  there 
were  many  occasions  during  those  months  when  a  man 
situated  as  he  was  had  been  excused  in  seeing  nothing 
but  blackness  about  him;  it  is,  indeed,  a  strong  testi- 
mony to  his  courage  that  there  is  only  one  letter,  out 
of  many  that  he  then  wrote  to  me,  written  in  other  than 
good  spirits  and  in  hope.  To  face  poverty  and  want, 
when  for  twenty-five  years  such  things  have  not  been 
experienced,  is  a  test  before  which  cheerfulness  is  apt 
to  be  defeated.  I  learned  afterwards  something,  I 
do  not  think  that  I  shall  ever  learn  all,  of  what  he  under- 
went during  that  autumn  in  Rome.  I  gathered  from 
chance  conversations  some  idea  of  the  straits  to  which 
he  was  put,  of  the  difficulty  that  he  often  had  in  finding 
money  to  buy  food  and  to  hire  a  lodging,  and  I  am  much 
inclined  to  wonder  that  among  his  letters,  which  I  have 


Aspects  of  a  Wandering  Life        183 

by  me  now,  there  is  only  the  one  in  which  he  seems  to 
have  lost  hope,  in  which  there  sounds  a  note  of  bitterness 
or  of  despair.  I  know  that  any  man  who  sets  out  to 
make  his  living  as  an  artist  must  be  prepared  for  many 
failures,  for  years  of  unremunerative  and  unnoticed 
work,  but  that  he  should  continue  to  hold  to  his  ideals, 
and  that  he  should  meet,  with  little  outcry,  whatever 
evil  fortune  chance  may  bring  him,  seems  to  me,  although 
little  more  than  his  obvious  duty,  still  a  circumstance 
on  which  those  who  wish  him  well  may  look  with  satis- 
faction. 

I  shall,  therefore,  give  in  this  connection  some  portion 
of  the  letter  to  which  I  have  already  referred;  and  by 
quoting  it  I  shall  hope  to  point  the  contrast  between 
that  and  his  ordinary  correspondence.  Perhaps,  if  I 
look  at  the  matter  justly,  I  have  another  reason:  this 
letter  shows,  or  so  I  think,  something  of  the  strength 
of  the  friendship  which  existed  between  us,  and  I  am 
sufficiently  proud  of  that  friendship  to  be  unwilling  to 
let  slip  this  chance  of  exposing  it. 

I  received  the  letter  at  the  beginning  of  October,  and 
it  had  the  address  of  a  paste  restante  in  Rome. 

"Can  you  manage  to  send  me,"  it  began,  "as  soon  as 
possible,  a  money  order  for  eight  pounds?  God  knows 
when  you  will  get  it  back — as  soon  as  I  can  earn  it,  which 
may  be  not  at  all.  I  know  that  you  would  rather  have 
me  forego  any  lame  explanation;  that,  if  necessary,  you 
would  give  the  money  and  be  offended  at  any  hesitation 
on  my  part  to  ask  for  it;  but  I  must  explain,  and  it  is 
only  right  that  you  should  know  to  what  sort  of  a  fool 
you  send  it. 

"  During  the  last  six  weeks  or  so — I  '11  make  the  tale 
as  short  as  I  can — I  have  altogether  failed  to  earn  a 


1 84  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

single  sou.  For  a  time  after  I  arrived  here  I  was  employed 
in  a  studio  to  give  what  help  I  could  to  aspiring  beginners ; 
by  this  I  earned  enough  to  feed  me,  and  was  also  allowed 
the  use  of  the  room  for  my  own  work.  I  quarrelled  with 
my  employer,  largely  on  account  of  my  own  foolishness, 
and  he  fired  me  out.  Since  then  I  have  been  living  on  my 
capital,  which  was  not  large,  which  is  now  exhausted. 
Four  days  ago  I  was  sitting  to  a  meal  in  the  place  which 
I  frequent,  the  place  where  Renier  challenged  me,  when 
my  father  came  in,  recognised  me,  and  sat  down  at  my 
table.  Why,  when  the  world  is  wide,  when  Rome  in 
any  case  is  full  of  drinking-shops,  the  fates  should  send 
him  to  this  particular  one,  I  do  not  know;  possibly  it 
has  some  reputation  as  the  haunt  of  poor  artists.  How- 
ever, being  in  Rome,  the  last  place  in  which  I  had  thought 
to  meet  him,  he  came,  on  a  miserable,  cold,  rainy  evening, 
and  encountered  his  illustrious  son. 

"  My  father  is,  I  think,  one  of  the  best  bred  men  that  I 
have  ever  met;  his  manner  never  loses  its  ease;  and  on 
that  particular  evening:  he  was  a  model  for  those  who 
aim  at  unembarrassed  conversation.  I  did  not  show  my- 
self worthy  of  such  parentage;  I  seem  to  have  dropped 
into  a  damnable  habit  of  seriousness,  and  to  have  for- 
gotten the  trick  of  laughter.  Besides,  I  was  not  in  a 
strong  position ;  as  I  see  the  matter,  I  could  not  possibly 
make  any  advance,  nor  meet  any  that  he  might  begin. 
He  thinks  me  one  thing,  I  know  myself,  at  least,  not 
that;  he  was  much  against  my  becoming  a  painter,  and  I, 
not  knowing  my  own  mind,  at  one  time  gave  him  some 
hopes  that  I  had  forgotten  that  career.  I  sat  in  front  of 
him  ragged,  unshaven — my  razors  are  in  pawn — 
obviously  far  from  prosperous,  so  that  any  attempted 
good-fellowship  on  my  part  had  seemed  damnably  like  a 
case  of  begging.  I  had  the  fear  of  God  in  me  of  that. 


Aspects  of  a  Wandering  Life        185 

So  we  sat  talking,  not  of  ourselves  but  of  other  things; 
and  all  the  time  I  could  notice  his  eyes  on  me,  studying, 
with  an  expression  I  did  not  try  to  read,  his  most  suc- 
cessful, independent  offspring.  After  a  while  he  excused 
himself  for  a  moment,  and  left  the  caf6,  coming  back  after 
a  short  while  for  another  ten  minutes  of  dull  talk; 
finally,  as  he  got  up  to  go,  he  handed  me  a  sealed  envelope 
without  address.  'This  came  to  me  for  you,'  says  he, 
and  his  tone  was  so  natural  that  I  did  not  suspect  him, 
'or  rather  the  enclosure  did.  I  was  going  to  ask  Dick 
Crutchley  to  forward  it ;  I  have  not  your  address. '  And 
with  that  he  gave  me  good-night  and  went  out. 

"The  envelope  contained  two  hundred-franc  notes. 
I  spent  them,  or  much  of  them,  in  the  next  twenty-four 
hours.  The  temptation  of  money  to  the  very  poor  is 
greater  than  I  thought,  or  I  am  weaker.  Then,  when 
through  high  living  I  had  regained  a  conscience,  I  saw 
the  fine  honourable  quality  of  the  proceeding:  to  style 
my  father  blind  and  disloyal,  as  I  do  in  my  own  mind, 
to  fancy  him  wanting  in  trust  and  friendship  and  myself 
the  pattern  of  virtue,  who  must  break  with  him  because 
he  does  not  believe  in  me,  but  to  accept  and  spend  his 
money  because  I  was  hungry  and  cold !  The  thing  needs 
no  comment.  I  went  to  the  only  man  I  know  here  who 
could  lend  me  the  sum;  borrowed  it,  and  returned  the 
sum  to  my  father,  with  a  letter  thanking  him,  but 
stating  that  he  was  mistaken  and  that  I  had  no  need  of 
it.  That  was  the  only  thing  that  it  occurred  to  me  to  do 
— I  am  not  proud  of  it,  now  that  it  is  done.  Please  send 
the  money,  if  you  can,  I  must  repay  the  other  man  at 
once.  It  seems  that  I  am  engaged  in  an  endeavour  to 
find  out  whose  debtor  I  may  become  with  least  dis- 
comfort to  myself. 

"Whether  or  not  I  shall  ever  reap  the  harvest  of  my 


1 86  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

dreams,  I  do  not  know.  I  have  not  lost  hope,  but  at  the 
moment  I  cut  so  poor  a  figure  that  I  have  little  conceit 
left  in  me,  and  it  seems  a  long,  rough  stretch  to  any  turn- 
ing. I  cannot  paint  pictures  that  the  small  dealers 
want ;  I  am  not  yet  able  to  paint  those  that  I  dream  of 
painting.  If  I  stand  still  where  I  am  now,  I  am  damned 
and  lost,  a  failure  in  all  things.  I  am  too  good  a  work- 
man to  paint  the  cheap  things  that  the  suburban  bour- 
geois wants ;  I  am  yet  a  whole  world  away  from  being  a 
great  artist.  There  are  times  when  things  seem  so  very 
wrong  that  I  despair.  So  far,  I  have  never  once  succeeded 
in  getting  my  thoughts  on  to  the  canvas;  what  right,  in 
God's  name,  have  I  to  hope  that  I  shall  ever  come  to 
better  things?" 

The  letter  ended  with  a  statement  that  he  would 
leave  Rome  as  soon  as  he  could  manage  it,  and  that 
he  would  get  back  to  Paris. 

Much  of  the  scorn  which  he  felt  for  himself  was,  I 
think,  justified;  he  had  acted  in  many  things  like  a 
fool,  and  had  no  right  to  sympathy  in  the  attitude  he 
chose  to  adopt  towards  Captain  Massingdale;  but  the 
giving  of  the  two  hundred  francs  was  a  false  move,  and 
the  cause  of  a  difficulty  to  the  recipient  that  he  could 
very  well  have  done  without. 

In  answer  to  the  reply  that  I  wrote  him,  I  had  a  short 
note,  written  in  much  more  cheerful  fashion,  yet,  or  so 
I  fancied  it,  somewhat  forced  in  its  gaiety. 

"Would  you, "  he  wrote  to  me,  "enchain  me  in  a  very 
mesh  of  debt?  Croesus,  you  are  unduly  kind  to  me,  but 
I  will  only  be  a  beggar  in  so  far  as  it  suits  my  honourable 
and  punctilious  soul  to  demand  alms.  I  return  the  fare 
to  Paris ;  and  will  cause  a  bust  of  Richard  Crutchley  to 


Aspects  of  a  Wandering  Life        187 

be  carved,  that  I  may  daily  worship  it  in  humble  grati- 
tude. I  am  rich  again;  I  am  in  excellent  spirits  ('Poor 
thing  of  moods ! '  says  you) ;  I  am  a  burning  mass  of  shame 
for  all  my  past  follies,  but  more  especially  for  the  maud- 
lin letter  which  I  sent  you.  I  am  in  no  confusion  about 
my  moral  worth:  I  have  no  delusions  about  my  being 
anything  but  foolish;  but  once  again  I  am  a  hopeful 
fool.  Paris  shines  ahead  of  me,  a  star,  a  hope,  the 
haven  whose  pier-head  lights  shine  out  to  me  across 
the  waters.  I  have  a  commission  to  conduct  a  statue 
of  Diana — blessed  goddess ! — to  some  rich  man's  dwelling 
near  Marseilles.  When  I  have  seen  it  safely  installed,  I 
shall  be  half-way  on  my  road,  and  with  money  in  my 
pocket!  I  shall  walk  to  Paris;  I  shall  be  many  weeks 
upon  the  road;  and  I  shall  gather  inspiration  as  the 
children  blackberries  in  autumn;- finally,  looking  down 
the  river  at  sunset,  footsore  and  content,  I  shall  stand 
on  the  Pont  Neuf,  breathe  a  prayer  of  thankfulness, 
and  cast  my  young  life  on  the  altar  steps  of  art.  En 
cette  foije  veux  vivre  et  mourir. 

"Don't  expect  to  hear  from  me  till  Christmas,  and 
then  from  Paris." 

Of  the  two  months  during  which  he  tramped  the 
roads  of  Eastern  France,  making  his  way  along  the 
Rhone,  through  Burgundy,  past  the  vineyards  where 
names  that  are  like  household  words  for  familiarity 
distinguish  pleasant,  quiet  villages,  and  at  last  by  the 
valley  of  the  Seine  to  Paris,  Massingdale  has  told  me 
very  little ;  yet  I  am  inclined  to  fancy  it  a  period  of  the 
utmost  importance  in  his  career,  a  time  that  helped 
him  to  a  much  clearer  sight  of  the  way  ahead. 

I  had  three  communications  from  him :  two  postcards 
with  bits  of  Burgundian  country  sketched  upon  them, 


1 88  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

and,  towards  the  end  of  November,  two  hundred-franc 
notes,  enclosed  with  one  line  of  writing  on  a  half-sheet 
of  notepaper.  How  he  arrived  at  saving  this  amount 
of  money  I  have  not  been  able  to  discover;  when  I 
ask  him  he  shouts,  and  accuses  me  of  thinking  that  he 
stole  it.  Otherwise  I  have  no  details  of  his  journey, 
and  nothing  to  go  upon  beyond  his  assurance  that  he 
enjoyed  himself  prodigiously. 

I  had  a  few  days  in  Paris  at  the  beginning  of  December, 
and  was  present  at  Yvonne  Carrel's  first  appearance 
at  the  Opera,  when  she  took  the  part  of  Delilah,  and 
sang  with  much  the  same  genius  that  she  had  shown 
to  us  in  the  studio  of  the  Rue  Antoinette.  She  had 
shortened  the  life  of  her  voice,  I  was  told,  but  she  would, 
for  some  few  years  more,  have  power  to  hold  an  audience 
obedient  to  her  mood ;  Massingdale  in  the  first  case,  and 
Loissel  after,  with  his  kindly  guarding  of  her,  had  held 
her  off  from  ruin  in  a  fashion  which  she  did  not  forget. 
After  the  performance  I  had  supper  at  the  Cafe  Anglais 
with  Yvonne,  Loissel,  and  the  fat  Auguste;  we  had  a 
private  room,  and  the  party  was  a  merry  one.  For  the 
most  part  of  the  time  we  were  content  to  discuss  Yvonne's 
singing,  and  to  pay  her  compliments,  but  just  before  we 
broke  up  the  gathering,  Loissel,  whose  guests  we  were, 
gave  us  a  toast. 

"To  the  return  of  our  Ulysses,"  he  cried,  "and  to  the 
strength  that  he  has  gained  in  wandering!" 

We  drank  the  toast  in  silence;  and  then,  almost 
before  we  had  swallowed  the  wine,  Yvonne  was  upon 
her  feet,  her  glass  recharged,  her  eyes  shining  with 
more  of  passion  and  intensity  than  was  their  wont, 
except  in  singing. 

"You  must  drink  again, my  friends,"  she  told  us, 
waiting  for  our  glasses  to  be  filled.  "You  must  drink 


Aspects  of  a  Wandering  Life        189 

my  toast  without  reserve.  Messieurs !  May  the  dreams 
that  we  have  dreamt  of  him,  our  Ulysses,  all  come  true!" 

When  she  had  emptied  her  glass,  she  threw  it  on 
the  table;  looked  at  the  fragments  with  a  smile;  asked 
us  whether  that  was  not  the  proper  thing  to  do;  and 
immediately  announced  that  she  was  tired,  and  would 
go  off  to  bed. 

Later,  as  Loissel  and  I  walked  home  down  the  Rue 
Auber,  for  I  stopped  with  the  old  man,  he  touched 
on  Yvonne's  toast. 

"It  is  strange,"  he  murmured,  staring  ahead  with 
eyes  which  did  not  see  the  street  about  him,  "this 
muddle  in  which  we  live.  Always,  always,  my  friend, 
there  are  complications.  You  will  laugh  at  me,  perhaps, 
but  I  have  a  fancy  the  little  Yvonne's  mistake,  the 
journey  which  she  started  and  only  ended  at  the  last 
moment  left  to  her,  was  due  to  this  same  cause,  the 
cause  of  her  toast  to-night."  He  paused,  and  walked 
some  yards  in  silence,  then  resumed  his  talk  on  the  same 
note  of  speculation.  "She  is  weak,  very  weak,  and 
the  danger  is  in  her  blood;  she  gave  way  to  it  when 
life  became  difficult.  She  wants  him,  she  has  wanted 
him  since  he  was  a  little  boy  in  Paris — how  much,  we 
do  not  know,  you  and  I.  He  knows  it;  she  told  him, 
and  he  has  ceased  to  be  to  her  what  he  had  been  before. 
Then  she  gave  way.  Now  she  hopes  again.  Hope  is 
seldom  reasonable.  It  is  impossible,  we  know  that,  you 
and  I ;  he  does  not  care.  I  do  not  think  he  ever  would 
have  cared,  in  other  circumstances.  She  is  kind  and  has 
a  hundred  good  qualities;  she  could  be  faithful,  but  she 
could  never  be  the  mate  for  him.  So,  my  friend,  I  say 
that  the  world  is  full  of  complications  and  of  sadness: 
for  it  is  not  a  little  thing  the  wasting  of  the  love  of  any 
woman,  even  though  she  be  such  that  her  purer  sisters 


190  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

shrink  away  from  her.  Purity — man  Dieu!  I  think  I 
would  exchange  it  for  kindness. " 

"You  think,  then, "  I  asked,  and  his  words  had  brought 
me  to  a  greater  sympathy  than  I  had  thought  to  have 
in  such  a  case,  "that  this  is  serious  with  her,  that  it 
will  last?" 

He  stopped  and  faced  me,  his  hand  gripping  the  lapel 
of  my  overcoat,  his  voice  harder  than  I  had  expected. 

"It  is  one  of  those  cases,"  he  told  me,  "which  certain 
persons  associate  with  justice,  calling  it  retribution.  You 
and  I,  being  perhaps  less  stupid,  might  call  it  tragedy — 
or  comedy,  the  comedy  that  the  gods  have  played  for 
their  amusement,  when  the  long  Olympian  peace  is 
irksome  to  them. " 

We  did  not  continue  the  discussion  of  the  matter, 
there  seemed  to  us  both,  I  fancy,  little  more  to  be  said ; 
but  I  remembered  Loissel's  final  pronouncement,  and 
when  the  matter  came  to  my  mind  during  the  next  few 
months,  I  wondered  what  the  end  would  be,  and  what 
finish  the  weary  Olympians  would  order  to  be  written  to 
this  play.  A  happy  ending  was  clearly  not  to  be,  or  so 
I  most  devoutly  believed,  although  I  have  no  liking  for 
any  tragedy. 

During  Christmas  time,  however,  I  had  other  things 
to  think  about.  As  usual,  I  passed  that  season  at 
Elsingham  Hall,  and  that  year  Tom  Onnington  was 
home,  and  had  with  him  a  brother  officer,  a  man  named 
Gatton,  who  was  quite  plainly  making  a  good  bid  for 
Joan's  affections.  He  was  an  amusing  fellow,  physically 
very  perfect,  and  not  less  intelligent  than  the  rest  of  us; 
comfortably  rich,  interested  in  his  profession,  and  a 
simple  and  honourable  gentleman;  such  a  man,  I  should 
imagine,  as  might  be  considered  a  very  excellent  pro- 
spective husband.  In  his  case  it  was  reasonable  to 


Aspects  of  a  Wandering  Life        191 

proclaim  that  you  knew  him  when  he  had  been  in  your 
company  for  a  week.  I  should  be  prepared  to  wager 
that  Joan  liked  him,  as  I  am  certain  most  people  did:  I 
am  equally  convinced  that  her  feelings  were  not  deeply 
stirred  on  his  account.  But,  being  an  exceedingly  good- 
looking  girl,  she  was  not  against  being  pleasant  to  him, 
and  very  probably  she  gave  him  more  than  a  passing 
thought  as  a  possible  husband,  submitting,  without  any 
sign  of  resentment  or  acceptance,  to  the  delicate  driving 
of  my  aunt,  who  thought  that  here  was  the  final  solution 
of  the  Massingdale  affair.  For  his  part,  Gatton  seemed 
to  find  the  situation  to  his  liking;  but  was,  I  took  it,  not 
the  sort  of  man  to  add  much  zest  to  the  gods'  comedy, 
if  the  game  went  against  him  in  the  end. 

Tom  Onnington  did  not  fancy  the  way  in  which 
matters  stood,  and  gave  me  his  opinions  one  misty 
afternoon,  as  he  and  I  rode  back  from  a  day's  hunting. 

"  I  don't  like  the  way  Joan  is  letting  Gatton  make  love 
to  her,"  he  told  me,  breaking  a  silence  with  some 
suddenness. 

"Lord,  man,"  said  I,  laughing,  "don't  play  the  heavy 
brother.  She  's  doing  no  more  than  a  girl  with  her  looks 
is  compelled  to  do,  to  keep  herself  in  good  conceit." 

"I  don't  see  it,"  he  answered,  and  the  man  was 
plainly  in  earnest.  "If  she  had  the  slightest  idea  of 
marrying  him,  I  'd  back  her  up  with  the  best  of  them — 
Gatton 's  an  excellent  sort ;  but  she  can't  have  forgotten 
that  poor  devil  Massingdale — he  is  not  the  sort  of  man 
any  girl  forgets." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked,  pulling  up  to  light 
a  pipe;  for  I  can  always  make  a  better  show  with  a 
ticklish  conversation  when  I  have  the  help  of  tobacco. 

"  Massingdale  is  more  your  friend  than  mine, "  said  he, 
"you  ought  to  know;  but  it  has  always  struck  me  that 


192  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

he  is  a  cut  above  our  humble  selves.  Personality  or 
something.  I  imagine  a  girl  feels  that  as  we  do.  Also, 
I  '11  be  damned  if  Joan  did  not  really  care  for  him." 

"You  seem  to  forget  the  circumstances  of  the  quarrel. " 

"I  do  not,"  he  cut  me  short.  "I  remember  it  as  one 
of  the  most  silly,  fool  businesses  I  ever  heard  of.  It 's 
quite  impossible  that  Massingdale  did  what  they  suggest. 
Why,  good  Lord!  ten  minutes  in  the  man's  company, 
and  you  could  take  your  dying  oath  on  that.  Joan 
must  be  blind,  or  stupidly  proud,  or  offended,  or  some 
equally  inane  thing  or  other.  Anyhow,  it  's  devilish 
hard  on  Massingdale,  and  about  the  worst  day's  business 
she  ever  did." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "supposing  that  is  so,  what's  the 
remedy?" 

"There  is  n't  one,"  he  answered.  "I  never  suggested 
there  was.  I  'm  only  on  the  cursing  tack  to  relieve  my 
feelings.  How  does  he  take  it  ?  " 

"Massingdale?  I  've  never  spoken  to  him  about  it. 
Pretty  hardly,  I  should  judge,  though  you  know  he  is 
not  the  man  to  shout  out  because  it  hurts  him. " 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  Tom  replied.  "Damn  it  all, 
Dick,  it 's  a  fool  world.  Let 's  liven  up  the  pace  a  bit. 
I'm  cold." 

At  odd  times  in  the  course  of  the  next  week  I  had  a 
good  deal  of  talk  with  Tom  about  Massingdale,  and 
although  we  came  to  no  conclusion  about  his  affairs, 
I  was  uncommon  pleased  to  discover  that  one  of  my 
relations,  in  any  case,  would  back  the  opinions  he  had 
formed  against  the  force  of  suspicious  circumstances. 

A  few  days  after  Tom  and  I  had  reopened  the  matter, 
Gatton  brought  up  the  subject  of  Massingdale  at  the 
dinner  table,  and  that  in  perfect  innocence  of  the  fact 
that  we  had  ever  heard  of  such  a  man.  The  cloth  had 


Aspects  of  a  Wandering  Life        193 

just  been  removed,  and  the  wine  and  fruit  put  on  the 
table — for  my  uncle  would  never  have  the  wine  set 
while  the  linen  still  covered  the  board — when  Gatton 
indulged  in  reminiscence. 

"The  other  day,"  said  he,  addressing  himself  to  Joan 
across  the  table,  but  he  had  found  a  pause  in  the  con- 
versation and  we  all  listened  to  him,  "as  I  was  coming 
home  overland,  I  tumbled  on  a  most  amusing  artist 
fellow;  shouldn't  have  guessed  his  trade  if  he  had  not 
told  me.  He  was  driving  cows  when  I  met  him.  It 's 
a  rather  funny  yarn,  if  you  care  to  hear  it. " 

Having  discovered  that  we  did  want  to  hear  it,  he 
settled  to  his  work  with  relish,  being  a  man  who  liked 
telling  a  story,  which  is  a  common  weakness,  who  also 
could  tell  one  without  spoiling  it,  which  is  rare. 

"I  broke  my  journey  at  Macon,"  he  told  us,  "and 
went,  for  a  couple  of  days,  to  Cluny.  When  I  'm  not 
in  a  hurry,  I  like  messing  about  these  old  places,  though 
I  know  nothing  about  them;  still  I  had  read  something 
of  the  history  of  Cluny  and  wanted  to  see  the  remains 
of  the  monastery  place.  It 's  not  bad  country  round 
about,  and  the  second  afternoon  I  went  for  a  walk.  I 
did  n't  know  my  way  at  all ;  just  wandered  on  through 
a  forest  and  over  some  hills.  I  was  looking  out  for  some 
one  to  tell  me  the  way  back  when  a  man  turned  up 
driving  four  cows;  one  of  the  most  incongruous-looking 
birds  I  ever  set  eyes  on — dressed  like  a  peasant,  except 
for  his  coat,  which  was  of  rough  tweed  and  English 
for  a  certainty,  but  a  gentleman  without  a  doubt  by 
the  cut  and  the  carriage  of  him.  He  started  the  conversa- 
tion before  I  had  a  chance  to  open  my  mouth,  shouting 
out  to  me  in  English  almost  as  soon  as  he  came  in  sight. 
4  Good-day, '  he  yelled,  and  I  liked  the  sound  of  him  at  the 
first  go-off.  '  You  might  stand  aside,  or  you  '11  head  my 
13 


194  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

cows  down  that  bridle  road.  I  'm  no  sort  of  hand  at  the 
driving  game.'  I  got  out  of  the  way  as  he  asked,  and 
waited  for  him  to  come  abreast  of  me;  if  it  had  not  been 
for  a  mongrel  pointer  that  he  had  with  him,  I  '11  bet 
that  even  in  that  short  distance  the  cows  would  have 
gone  off  all  over  the  countryside.  When  he  came  up  to 
me  I  asked  him  how  he  knew  that  I  was  English ;  there- 
upon he  roared  aloud  with  laughter.  'Your  clothes, 
your  walk,  your  face,  your  build,  your  pipe!  Heaven 
be  kind  to  the  man ! '  he  shouted ;  '  does  he  think  that  he 
looks  like  a  native  of  any  other  country?' 

"I  liked  this  cowherd  fellow,  he  seemed  a  jovial 
kind  of  knave  although  he  was  as  thin  as  a  lath  and  had 
the  eyes  of  a  fanatic,  so  I  fell  in  alongside  of  him  and 
went  the  way  that  he  did.  He  told  me  of  a  vast  number 
of  things  that  a  man  should  be  careful  to  avoid  in 
driving  cows,  and  I  howled  with  delight  at  his  account 
of  his  morning's  misadventures;  then,  quite  suddenly, 
in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  he  asked  for  a  fill  of  baccy. 
I  gave  him  one.  'Sir,'  said  he,  with  an  absurd  bow, 
stopping  short  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  letting  the 
cows  wander  off  where  they  would,  'for  this  I  hold 
myself  your  debtor  for  all  time.  Fate  will  separate  us — 
probably  in  a  few  minutes — but  not  the  grave  itself  shall 
dim  for  me  the  memory  of  your  charity.  For  many 
weeks  nothing  but  the  vilest  caporal  has  been  through 
my  pipe.  That  is  France's  greatest  shame,  that  she  has 
no  decent  tobacco.  Damnation ! '  With  no  other  warning 
he  fled  from  me  down  the  road,  like  a  man  with  a  swarm 
of  bees  astern  of  him.  There  ahead  of  us  was  a  fat  man  in 
a  trap,  walking  his  horse  past  the  cows  and  flicking  at 
them  with  his  whip  as  he  went  by;  the  mongrel  dog 
evidently  was  n't  taking  any  of  this,  and  went  for  the 
trap  with  a  snarl;  thereupon  the  fat  beast  inside  cut 


Aspects  of  a  Wandering  Life        195 

at  him,  and  caught  the  poor  brute  in  the  eye,  sending 
him  away  yelling.  By  that  time  the  cowherd  chap  had 
got  up  to  the  horse's  head ;  he  held  on  to  it  and  addressed 
the  man  in  the  cart  in  a  voice  that  must  have  carried 
most  of  the  way  to  Cluny.  He  started  off  by  calling 
t'  other  man  a  fat  swine,  and  then  became  so  fluent 
that  my  French  would  n't  stand  it;  but  I  saw  there 
was  going  to  be  war,  so  I  hurried  up  to  see  the  fun.  It 
was  a  glorious  scrap.  The  fat  man,  to  do  him  justice, 
seemed  quite  willing,  perhaps  he  was  backing  his  weight. 
The  fighting  lacked  style  and  finish,  but  they  went  at  it 
in  proper  fashion;  the  cowherd  was  all  over  the  fat  man, 
who  made  sort  of  windmill  rushes  and  used  everything 
he  had  got,  feet,  hands,  head — everything,  and  the  fight 
was  finished,  I  should  think,  in  under  three  minutes. 
The  heavy-weight  got  a  punch  in  the  eye  that  was  all 
he  wanted,  and  he  sat  down  in  the  road  and  cursed. 
I  handed  him  the  reins  of  his  horse,  who  seemed  a  quiet 
sort  of  beast — probably  dragging  the  sportsman  with  the 
damaged  eye  had  sobered  him — and  the  flushed  victor 
enlisted  my  aid  in  rounding  up  the  cows  again. 

"We  drove  them — I  was  a  long  sight  better  hand  at 
the  game  than  he  was ;  he  seemed  the  most  extraordinarily 
erratic  person  I  ever  met — to  a  farm  about  a  mile  away. 
I  looked  upon  the  whole  business  as  a  lunatic  perform- 
ance that  I  would  not  have  missed  for  a  fiver,  but  the 
cowherd  fellow — Massingdale,  that  was  his  name,  I 
thought  I  should  remember  it — seemed  mighty  serious 
about  it;  he  talked  with  amazing  excitement  about  the 
fat  fellow's  cruelty  to  the  dog,  until  we  delivered  up  the 
kine  to  their  owner.  Massingdale  was  just  about  to  be 
paid  for  his  herding — the  man  grew  more  and  more  of  a 
mystery  to  me  as  things  went  on — when  the  defeated 
champion  drove  into  the  yard.  'Streuth !  there  was  some 


196  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

talk  then.  I  could  n't  follow  all  of  it,  but  the  three  of 
them  went  at  it  at  once;  and  I  'd  have  taken  odds  on 
there  being  another  battle — in  fact  I  was  standing  by  to 
give  my  own  side  some  assistance  when  they  settled 
the  thing  without  blows.  The  former  was  an  excellent 
man  of  business:  he  suggested  not  giving:  Massingdale 
his  money  by  way  of  punishment  for  his  violence;  he 
stopped  some  of  the  fat  man's  protest  by  hinting  that 
the  dog  was  seriously  damaged  and  that  there  might  be 
compensation  to  pay  on  that  count;  and  in  the  end  he 
got  his  way. 

"Massingdale  offered  to  see  me  on  to  the  road  for 
Cluny,  and  we  set  out  together;  as  far  as  I  could  make  out, 
his  business  in  that  part  of  the  world  seemed  ended 
with  the  safe  return  of  the  cows.  I  bubbled  with  curiosity 
worse  than  any  spinster;  I  started  pumping  him;  and  he 
put  me  to  eternal  shame  by  offering  me  a  version  of  his 
life's  history.  '  Charitable  dispenser  of  deifying  tobacco, 
amused  spectator  of  my  pugilistic  efforts,  you  shall  hear 
how  you  walk  with  a  great  man  unawares,'  said  he; 
and  I  should  have  started  an  apology  for  my  beastly  in- 
quisitiveness,  if  it  had  not  been  perfectly  obvious  that 
he  did  not  care  a  tinker's  curse  whether  I  happened  to 
be  inquisitive  or  not.  He  told  me  that  he  was  a  painter 
'of  quite  uncommon  merit,'  but  that  unfortunately 
the  public  and  the  critics  were,  so  far,  unaware  of  his 
existence;  that  he  walked  from  Marseilles  to  Paris  in  order 
to  gain  inspiration  by  the  road;  and  that  his  periodic 
employment  as  a  farm  labourer  was  an  experiment  to 
prove  that  an  unskilled  man  could  always  earn  his 
living  in  the  country.  He  fired  this  weird  yarn  at  me 
with  an  air  of  perfect  frankness,  and  I  kept  my  mouth 
shut  at  the  end  of  it,  because  I  was  fairly  up  a  tree,  and 
had  nothing  to  say.  I  tried  to  get  him  to  come  to 


Aspects  of  a  Wandering  Life        197 

Cluny  and  dine  with  me,  but  he  would  not,  and  left  me 
when  we  came  in  sight  of  the  place. 

"Hope  I  have  not  bored  you  with  the  tale,  but  this 
man  Massingdale  made  an  awful  impression  on  me; 
he  was,  in  some  ways,  what  I  should  call  the  type  of 
a  genius.  Gave  you  an  idea  that  he  could  do  things 
if  he  tried  to,  and  made  you  cotton  to  him  and  listen 
to  what  he  had  to  say  for  himself,  you  did  n't  quite 
know  why.  Gad,  I  never  saw  such  eyes ! " 

Gatton  stopped  talking  and  stared  at  his  plate,  play- 
ing with  an  almond;  then  he  looked  up,  found  us  all, 
I  fancy,  trying  to  hit  upon  some  happy  comment,  and 
realised  that  there  was  something  in  the  air. 

"I  say,"  he  began  rather  nervously,  "have  I  stuck  my 
hoof  into  it  somehow? — O  Lord!  Don't  say  that  you 
know  this  man  Massingdale!" 

He  seemed  to  find  the  idea  an  excellent  jest,  and 
laughed  heartily. 

"We  used  to  know  him  very  well,"  Joan  answered, 
without  any  sign  of  embarrassment;  "but  he  has  not 
been  in  England  for  nearly  two  years.  What  you  say 
of  him  is  very  characteristic;  he  does  those  original 
sorts  of  things." 

"Does  he  paint  well?"  enquired  Gatton;  he  was 
evidently  interested  in  Massingdale. 

"He  used  to  be  a  barrister,"  my  uncle  joined  in 
quietly.  "I  have  not  seen  any  of  his  work  since  he 
left  England." 

"I  hope  he  gets  on,"  Gatton  persisted.  "I  wish  him 
a  popular  reception  at  the  Salon  or  somewhere  of  that 
sort ;  because  it  struck  me  afterwards  that  he  was  pretty 
well  at  the  end  of  his  tether.  I  believe  the  money  that 
that  farmer  fellow  would  n't  pay  him  was  fairly  badly 
needed,  and  that  he  was  too  proud  to  dine  at  my  expense. 


198  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

I  supppose  a  man  does  get  like  that  when  he  can't  pos- 
sibly return  the  hospitality;  it 's  rotten  silly,  because 
your  friend  Massingdale  probably  slept  under  a  haystack, 
and  was  beastly  hungry  when  he  might  have  been  well 
fed,  besides  depriving  me  of  a  most  amusing  evening." 

We  did  not  go  on  with  the  subject,  though  Gatton 
was  evidently  loth  to  let  it  drop ;  he  probably  wondered 
why  we  were  so  little  interested  in  a  man  whom  we 
professed  to  know.  Yet,  had  he  known  the  true  state 
of  affairs,  he  would  have  wished  himself,  I  take  it,  not 
quite  so  ready  with  a  story;  for  he  had  given  Joan  a 
picture  which,  it  may  be  supposed,  she  dwelt  upon. 
To  one  who  had  once  had  a  liking  for  him,  the  vision 
of  Massingdale,  out  at  elbows  and  cheerful,  doing 
quixotic  and  excitable  actions  on  the  public  roads  of 
France,  exercising  his  peculiar  influence,  although  in 
literal  fact  a  tramp,  sleeping  hungry  under  the  autumn 
stars,  was  something  that  would  stick  in  the  mind,  keep- 
ing green  disquieting  memories,  wakening  sleeping  hopes. 


CHAPTER   XI 

AN   ODD   COMPANY   ASSEMBLES 

MASSINGDALE  had  arrived  in  Paris  a  few  days 
before  Christmas;  had,  I  believe,  been  received 
as  a  returning  prodigal  by  his  friends;  and  had  settled 
down  to  paint  pictures,  and,  if  possible,  to  sell  them. 
Loissel  had  persuaded  him  to  accept  a  position  in  his 
studio;  the  work  allowed  him  plenty  of  time  to  do  his 
own  painting,  and  the  salary  enabled  him  to  live,  other- 
wise he  had  most  certainly  failed  to  find  sufficient  money 
either  to  carry  on  his  trade  or  to  support  existence.  Yet 
if  the  job  offered  him  had  been  an  absolute  sinecure, 
he  would  have  snorted  at  it,  proclaiming  it  charity, 
would  have  refused  to  touch  it,  and  would,  likely,  have 
foregone  many  chances  of  success  in  consequence.  As 
it  was,  Loissel  gained  his  own  way,  and  Massingdale  had 
enough  money  to  feed  himself  and  to  buy  materials, 
and  the  time  to  do  the  serious  work  that  he  had  not 
yet  attempted. 

During  the  next  few  months,  he  turned  his  walk 
across  France  to  some  profit,  and  finished,  from  the 
sketches  that  he  had  made  on  the  road,  the  first  two 
pictures  that  show  the  real  development  of  his  power; 
in  both,  A  Valley  of  Auvergne,  and  La  Pluie  d' 
Automne,  there  is  something  more  than  fine  work- 
manship and  a  wonderful  skill  in  colouring — there  is 

199 


200  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

a  strength,  and  a  suggestion  of  wide  places  and  the 
clean  air,  which  is  not  easily  come  upon.  Both  pictures 
brought  to  their  creator  some  attention,  both  were 
exhibited  in  the  Salon,  and  both  sold  for  small  sums 
— something  under  fifty  pounds  for  the  two  of  them, 
if  I  remember  right.  The  advocates  of  the  latest  fashion 
of  the  moment  denounced  the  work  as  being  superficial, 
technically  well  executed  but  insincere.  Massingdale, 
these  astute  gentlemen  urged,  with  great  delight  in  their 
meaningless  jargon,  had  been  content  to  reproduce  a 
scene  that  had  some  claim  on  beauty;  he  did  not,  as  a 
true  artist  should,  express  the  idea  which  the  scene  had 
conveyed  to  him,  obliterating  in  his  expression  all  details 
that  were  not  essential  to  his  meaning.  The  wiser  critics 
held  out  many  hopes  for  his  future,  but  complained  that 
his  pictures  were  indefinite,  since  they  conjured  to  the 
mind  a  hundred  different  aspects  of  the  painted  scenes, 
since  in  them  there  were  many  suggestions,  but  no  clear 
explanation  of  the  artist's  vision. 

Although  the  world  of  picture-lovers  had  not  risen 
with  open  arms  held  out  to  him,  his  first  exhibits  had 
led  men  to  speak  of  him,  and  even  the  more  pessimistic 
of  the  Parisian  judges  were  inclined  to  grant  that  a  man 
of  more  than  common  merit  had  made  his  first  bow  to 
the  public.  Massingdale  himself  seemed  to  care  very 
little  what  they  said  of  him,  announcing  that  a  kindly 
fate  had  blinded  them  to  the  worst  faults  in  his  two 
pictures,  and,  for  the  rest,  that  they  might  say  what 
things  they  would. 

"There  is  a  deal  of  truth,"  he  wrote  to  me,  "in  what 
the  critics,  some  of  them,  have  said  about  my  painting, 
but  may  I  rot  in  the  depths  of  hell  if  I  understand  what 
they  mean  by  not  making  clear  the  artist's  vision.  Have 


An  Odd  Company  Assembles      201 

I,  have  you,  has  any  one  of  all  the  human  tribe,  a  clear 
vision  of  autumn  rain?  At  one  moment  it  is  one  thing, 
at  the  next,  when  a  squall  strikes  you  on  the  other  cheek 
and  the  wind  finds  out  the  weakness  of  your  clothing,  the 
whole  thing  is  changed,  the  scene  before  you  not  at  all 
the  same.  It  is  as  we  are,  saints  yesterday  and  devils 
to-morrow,  and  the  reason  of  the  change  not  compre- 
hended. A  clear  vision,  forsooth!  Let  them  take  their 
clear  visions  to  a  seminary,  they  are  fit  meat  for  peda- 
gogues or  fools.  For  me,  I  have  never  yet  seen  clearly, 
being  human,  and,  still  being  human,  I  do  not  think  I 
ever  shall." 

So  the  spring  and  the  summer  passed,  and  I  saw 
nothing  of  Massingdale,  and  only  heard  from  him 
occasionally,  of  how  he  slowly  grew  to  be  a  painter. 
The  Onningtons  left  England  directly  after  the  season 
was  finished  to  wander  about  the  Continent  until  the 
autumn;  they  had,  much  to  my  uncle's  disgust,  rented 
a  house  in  town  during  May  and  June,  and  Joan  had 
passed  what,  I  suppose,  may  be  called  a  successful 
season.  She  was  uncommon  popular  with  men,  not 
disliked  by  her  own  kind,  and  had  developed  some- 
thing of  a  real  beauty;  yet,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned, 
she  had  lost  far  more  than  she  had  gained,  and  in  occupy- 
ing herself  solely  with  the  ordinary  affairs  of  a  girl  in 
her  position,  without,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  any 
particular  interest,  she  showed  signs  of  losing  all  the 
individual  character  that  nature  had  given  to  her.  When 
we  met,  which  I  contrived  should  be  less  frequently 
than  hitherto,  she  talked,  for  the  most  part,  of  the 
common  topics  of  the  moment,  and  she  showed  some 
signs  of  exhibiting  a  trick  of  being  bored  with  her  sur- 
roundings, which  had  not  been  her  habit  a  year  before. 


202  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

I  did  not  like  the  change,  and  I  came  near  to  congratu- 
lating Massingdale  on  a  merciful  escape.  Admiral 
Onnington,  also  was  not  blind  to  the  alteration  of  her 
manner,  giving  me  his  views  upon  it  one  evening,  when, 
to  escape  some  function  or  other,  he  had  taken  refuge 
with  me  in  Brick  Court. 

"There  is  something  wrong  with  Joan,  Dick,"  he  told 
me,  sitting  at  his  ease  in  a  new  arm-chair  that  I  had 
purchased.  "Too  much  of  this  stupid  gadding  about. 
What  any  one  wants  to  miss  the  best  month  of  the 
summer  rushing  about  this  town  for,  I  can't  imagine. 
However,  your  aunt  would  have  it,  my  boy,  and  a  wise 
man  knows  when  to  give  way  to  his  wife.  What  do  you 
think  of  the  girl  yourself?" 

"I  don't  quite  know,"  I  answered.  "She  seems 
getting  bored  with  the  show,  and  yet  she  hardly  talks 
of  anything  else,  as  she  used  to  do. " 

"I  'm  hoping,"  he  suggested,  chuckling,  "that  she  '11 
get  such  a  sickener  of  the  business  that  I  shan't  be 
dragged  up  here  next  June.  Still,  I  can't  quite  make 
her  out;  she  doesn't  seem  to  care,  nowadays,  about 
a  man  who  can  say  something  interesting.  I  can  only 
hope  that  she  will  wait  a  bit,  give  herself  time  to  change 
again,  before  she  picks  a  husband.  There  was  a  time, 
Dick,  when  I  would  have  told  a  man  to  go  to  the  devil 
if  he  had  suggested  that  my  daughter  would  turn  out 
good-looking  and  nothing  else;  now,  sometimes,  I  'm 
rather  afraid  that  that  may  come  to  be  the  case.  I  don't 
like  it ;  I  always  hoped  that  she  might  make  a  good  wife 
for  a  man  who  wanted  something  more  than  a  pretty 
face." 

He  sighed,  and  sat  silent,  staring  in  front  of  him; 
then,  as  if  he  had  detected  himself  gossiping,  he  changed 
the  subject. 


An  Odd  Company  Assembles      203 

On  the  whole  I  was  not  sorry  when  the  Onningtons 
left  town,  and  I  was  distinctly  relieved  that  they 
had  not  suggested  my  being  with  them  on  their 
holiday. 

Having  no  particular  plans  for  the  spending  of  my 
Long  Vacation,  and  being  of  those  men  who  do  not 
like  to  wander  about  alone,  I  had  written  to  Massing- 
dale  suggesting  that  he  should  leave  Paris  for  a  few 
weeks  and  should  look  after  me  somewhere  in  the  country; 
in  due  course,  which  in  this  instance  was  a  matter  of 
several  weeks,  he  sent  me  an  answer,  and  I  learned  that 
he  had  already  fled  the  town,  and  was  settled  in  some 
obscure  Burgundian  village,  in  the  department  of  Sa6ne- 
et-Loire.  Beyond  the  facts  that  he  wished  to  sketch 
the  peasantry,  and  that  he  held  many  pleasant  memories 
of  this  district — perhaps  his  fight  with  the  fat  man, 
which  Gatton  had  witnessed,  was  high  amongst  them — 
I  can  suggest  no  reason  why  he  should  have  chosen  this 
spot  rather  than  one  of  a  hundred  others,  neither  can  I 
show  any  cause  at  all  why  he  should  have  settled  as  the 
tenant  of  a  house ;  however,  there  are  very  few  of  Massing- 
dale's  actions  which  may  be  seen  as  carefully  thought  out 
and  duly  weighed,  and  therein,  since  he  has  come  to  no 
very  great  harm,  and  is,  I  fancy,  not  less  well  thought  of 
than  his  neighbours,  lies  evidence  for  the  defence  of 
irresponsibility,  and  for  an  attack  upon  the  useless 
habit  of  setting  about  the  discovery  of  other  people's 
motives. 

His  overdue  answer  to  my  letter  was  headed  by  a 
curious  announcement,  which  the  rest  of  the  epistle 
did  not  fully  explain;  the  address  was  given,  in  the 
usual  place,  as  La  Fontaine  des  Bois,  St.  Gengoux, 
Sa6ne-et-Loire,  and  below  it  was  inscribed  the  following 
information : 


204  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"AU   GRAND  ESPOIR 

(AUBERGE  ORIGINALE) 
CUISINE  SOIGNEE.    BAINS  (TUBS).    GRAND  CONTORT. 

PRIX  MODERES. 
Proprietaire:   LOUIS  MASSINGDALE." 

* 

After  this  promising  advertisement,  there  was  the 
written  assurance  that,  should  I  decide  to  visit  the 
hostelry,  the  landlord  would  make  it  his  business  to 
ensure  my  comfort,  and  that  he  would  be  pleased  to 
offer  me  the  ridiculously  low  terms  of  four  francs  a  day, 
inclusive. 

Then — and,  having  read  so  far,  I  was  still  in  ignorance 
of  the  meaning  of  the  communication — Massingdale 
condescended  to  some  explanation,  which,  however, 
left  me  scarcely  wiser  than  before.  He  informed  me 
that  he  had  become  an  innkeeper;  that  after  a  long  life 
of  misspent  effort,  he  had  found  the  one  occupation  be- 
coming to  a  man  of  parts;  that  it  was  his  only  wish,  all 
other  earthly  vanities  being  purged  from  his  nature,  that 
he  might  die  in  harness,  an  apron  about  his  waist,  a 
dish  in  one  hand,  a  bottle  of  wine  in  the  other,  and 
that  above  his  grave,  in  place  of  any  tombstone,  an 
inn  sign  should  creak  in  the  wind.  Moving  slowly,  and 
at  the  cost  of  much  inferior  note-paper  and  a  most 
prodigious  outpouring  of  words,  he  came  at  length  to 
facts,  touched  on  them  lightly,  and  was  away  again  to 
many  lines  of  nonsense.  As  far  as  I  could  make  anything 
of  what  he  wrote  to  me,  I  gathered  that  he  had  gone  to 
Cluny,  or  near  it,  to  paint ;  that  he  had  there  met  a  man 
— who  the  gentleman  might  be  he  did  not  say — and  that 


An  Odd  Company  Assembles      205 

this  good  person  had  a  house  to  let  in  the  hamlet  of  La 
Fontaine  des  Bois;  that  the  name  of  the  hamlet  was  beau- 
tiful beyond  expression ;  that  the  situation  was  God-given ; 
that  the  house  was  fit  to  live  in  and  very  picturesque; 
that  the  whole  circumstance  was  certainly  an  almost  in- 
credible example  of  Olympian  kindness;  that,  in  short, 
Kenneth  Louis  St.  Cyprien  Massingdale  was  now  the 
tenant  of  a  cottage  property  in  Burgundy.  Having 
signed  the  agreement — which  document  I  afterwards 
studied,  and  it  was  a  thing  to  compel  tears  of  pity  in  the 
hearts  of  the  tenant's  friends — it  seemed  that  Massing- 
dale began  to  think  of  what  he  should  next  do.  The  house 
was  furnished,  and  the  tenancy  was  for  no  more  than 
five  months,  otherwise  one  of  the  parties  to  the  trans- 
action had  shortly  found  himself  in  a  debtor's  prison ;  but 
even  in  view  of  this  mitigation  of  his  folly,  there  was 
no  chance  that  he  could  support  existence  as  a  solvent 
householder.  Therefore,  and  even  he  saw  the  necessity 
for  some  action,  he  set  about  augmenting  his  income 
in  the  best  way  that  was  open  to  him;  he  wrote  to  Paris, 
to  such  of  his  friends  as  were  there,  suggesting  that  they 
should  stop  with  him,  paying  their  way;  and,  it  being 
the  season  when  any  man  who  may  gets  him  out  of  the 
town,  he  managed  to  collect  a  house-party.  Such,  I 
imagined,  was  the  cause  of  his  announcement  that  he  had 
become  an  innkeeper;  a  statement  not  more  exaggerated 
than  many  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  making. 

He  furnished  me  with  a  list  of  the  guests,  promising 
that,  should  I  hesitate  to  come  to  his  house,  he  would 
provide  me  with  a  sheaf  of  the  most  enthusiastic  testi- 
monials. 

"Auguste  Vanne  is  here,"  he  wrote,  "a  creature  as 
happy  as  the  summer  air,  though  heavier.  He  is  engaged 


206  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

upon  the  composition  of  a  sonata  which  is  to  dower  him 
with  immortality.  In  his  company  came  the  boy 
Marella*c,  who  wanders  the  hills  all  day  and  only  returns 
to  my  roof  at  night,  when  he  makes  for  us  the  divine 
music  that  the  gods  have  sent  him  with  the  sun.  Athana- 
sius  Roderick  Blinkson,  M.A.,  serves  as  my  head 
gardener,  also  as  wine-taster.  In  both  things  he  is 
highly  successful,  and  beyond,  in  a  role  more  difficult, 
he  earns  our  gratitude  as  the  kindly  critic  of  our  many 
follies.  Loissel  will  be  here  shortly,  so  that  you  perceive, 
honoured  sir,  that  the  house  is  above  reproach.  Yester- 
day, towards  sundown,  Hendick — you  remember  the 
reformer — comes  swinging  down  the  road,  a  pack  upon 
his  back.  He  stops.  Being  a  person  of  impossible 
vanity,  he  has  sent  for  his  luggage — we  had  imagined 
that  he  had  it  with  him,  but  have  been  informed  of  our 
mistake — and,  upon  its  arrival,  will  be  expected  to  take 
his  dinner  in  the  garments  ordered  by  society.  We  are, 
therefore,  fashionable.  When  you  arrive  the  board  will 
be  as  representative  as  a  public  lecture  at  the  Sorbonne. 
We  shall  point  to  you,  proclaiming,  '  There  sits  a  man  of 
common-sense!'  We  have  no  women  with  us;  mais 
nous  sommes  bien  sages ,  mon  cher.  Yvonne  had  added 
to  our  gaiety,  but  the  thing  was  impossible;  no  good  would 
have  come  of  it.  I  speak  neither  in  a  conventional 
fashion  nor  as  the  champion  of  bourgeois  morals.  We 
are,  however,  better  without  women  here.  Therefore, 
come!  A  few  old  clothes  thrown  into  a  bag,  a  book  or 
two,  the  next  train  to  Paris  caught  with  no  time  to  spare, 
a  telegram  announcing  the  hour  of  your  arrival  at  Cluny 
(remember  the  station),  and  the  thing  is  done.  You  shall 
live  as  you  have  not  dreamed  of  living ;  you  shall  become 
a  person  of  amazing  health  and  appetite,  and  nightly 
you  shall  go  blessedly  weary  to  your  bed;  you  shall 


An  Odd  Company  Assembles       207 

spend  long  hours  in  the  company  of  pleasant  companions, 
and  with  them  you  shall  discuss  the  world  and  its  affairs. 
You  will  not  refuse?  As  you  love  me,  Richard,  you  will 
come  and  see  my  inn,  you  will  fill  your  chair  that  has 
been  too  long  vacant?  Heavens,  man!  you  cannot 
possibly  conceive  my  satisfaction.  I  am  a  householder — 
the  circumstance  pleases  me  like  a  draught  of  wine  on  a 
hot  day.  I  look  from  my  windows  upon  a  garden  from 
which  I  can  exclude  the  world,  if  the  mood  takes  me. 
The  garden  is  not  large,  nor  beautiful  as  our  English 
gardens  are,  yet,  nom  d'un  nom,  it  is  mine!  And  the 
place  where  lies  this  corner  which  I  control!  You  shall 
see  it — it  cannot  be  described.  The  mountains  of  the 
Charollais,  the  Foret  de  Goulene;  hills,  rolling  and  bold, 
and  trees — not  woods  of  them,  but  forests;  streams, 
noisy  and  self -occupied ;  vines,  and  oxen  at  the  plough — 
white  oxen,  soft-eyed  and  slow.  Here  in  this  quiet 
valley  we  live  apart  from  noise,  and  dust,  and  business; 
railways  are  far  from  us,  and  the  hills  shut  them  out; 
no  main  road  passes  us,  and  the  world's  news  is  not 
brought  to  our  door.  Upon  a  little  hill,  an  islet  in  a 
wooded  sea,  there  stands  an  unpretentious  chateau — a 
hunting  lodge,  no  more,  yet  this  holds  us  to  the  past  and 
keeps  us  pledged  to  old  tradition;  for  the  lord  who  rules 
here  is  of  ancient  stock,  and  neither  revolutions  nor 
new  creeds,  enfranchisements  nor  popular  instruction, 
have  robbed  him  altogether  of  his  father's  sway,  neither 
emperors  nor  republics  have  killed  the  memory  of  his 
feudal  power.  Surely  this  is  only  fitting,  for  the  valley 
of  to-day  shows  no  great  change  from  that  of  yesterday ; 
the  seasons  come  and  go,  and  nature  changes  her  dress 
like  a  maiden  proud  of  her  beauty.  Every  morning 
you  may  waken  to  a  new  scene,  some  slight  altered 
expression  of  the  old  friend  who  veiled  himself  last  night ; 


208  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

every  day,  whether  in  sun  or  rain,  calm  or  wind,  trium- 
phant music  played  by  swaying  trees  or  the  deep  silence 
of  small  noises,  you  shall  gather  new  inspiration  and 
new  hope;  every  day  you  shall  grow  more  thankful  that, 
for  a  little  time  at  least,  you  are  done  with  towns  and 
their  confusion,  that  you  breathe  quietly  under  the  wide 
sky.  But  you  shall  come  and  make  your  memories 
for  yourself.  You  shall  see  how  we  work  and  enjoy 
ourselves,  and,  with  us,  you  shall  forget  the  barriers, 
and  dream  your  dreams  are  realised,  the  work  you  want 
to  do  is  done." 

The  thing  suited  me  very  well.  I  had  sufficient  trust 
in  Massingdale's  good  taste  to  be  assured  that  this 
valley  of  his  was  worth  the  seeing.  I  liked  the  sound 
of  the  promised  entertainment,  and  I  looked  forward  to 
watching  Massingdale  direct  a  household  with  a  deal  of 
amusement.  At  worst,  I  decided,  I  might  be  of  some 
use  in  extricating  him  from  proceedings  in  bankruptcy, 
so  I  left  London  two  days  after  receiving  his  letter,  and 
wired  him  to  meet  me  at  Cluny  the  following  day. 

I  stopped  a  night  in  Paris;  took  a  morning  express  to 
Macon;  there  changed  to  the  local  line;  and  arrived  at 
Cluny  about  five  of  the  afternoon,  having  spent  the  best 
part  of  a  hot  July  day  in  amazingly  stuffy  railway 
carriages.  Masssingdale  was  on  the  platform  to  meet 
me,  very  thin  and  sunburnt,  and  clothed,  I  should 
imagine,  solely  in  the  interests  of  comfort.  He  wore 
grey  flannel  trousers  that  had  seen  much  service,  a  shirt 
with  a  turned-down,  unstarched  collar  open  at  the  neck, 
an  alpaca  coat  of  local  manufacture,  canvas  shoes  with 
rope  soles,  and  an  immense  hat  of  straw,  such  as  peasants 
and  other  wise  men  wear  when  the  sun  is  hot.  He 
hailed  me  as  I  stepped  from  the  carriage,  and  very 


An  Odd  Company  Assembles       209 

shortly  the  station  rang  with  his  talk.  So  far  as  I  could 
make  out,  he  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  the  whole 
staff  of  officials,  and  held  it  a  point  of  honour  to  engage 
them  all  in  conversation,  for  as  we  sorted  out  my  luggage 
he  asked  me  a  hundred  questions  about  myself,  inter- 
spersed between  talk  with  the  porters.  In  spite  of  his 
incredible  volubility,  we  were  clear  of  the  station  and 
my  luggage  with  us,  before  the  other  passengers  had 
finished  the  collection  of  their  packages. 

Outside  was  a  rough  farm  cart  drawn  by  a  bony  and 
veteran  horse  of  placid  temperament,  an  animal  with- 
out the  peculiar  distinction  of  D'Artagnan's  steed,  a 
mere  beast  of  burden  whose  youth  and,  perhaps,  whose 
beauty  had  passed  him  by.  Auguste  Vanne  in  much  the 
same  attire  as  Massingdale,  except  that  he  wore  no  coat, 
sat  in  the  cart,  his  face  glistening  with  the  heat,  his 
figure  no  less  round  than  when  I  had  last  seen  him.  At 
sight  of  us  he  clambered,  with  much  puffing,  from  his 
seat,  greeted  me  with  warmth,  announced  that  the  heat 
was  terrible,  and  fell  upon  the  boxes  with  surprising 
agility.  While  we  helped  him  to  pile  them  in  the  cart, 
I  was  informed  of  the  merits  of  the  horse. 

"For  the  honour  of  England,"  Massingdale  assured 
me,  "  I  was  forced  to  have  a  horse,  where  an  ox  had  served 
me  just  as  well." 

"His  name,"  said  Vanne,  mopping  his  face  with  a 
handkerchief  of  violent  colours,  "is  Bucephalus.  He  is 
a  creature  of  noble  spirit,  monsieur,  and  probably  much 
older  than  thirty  years. " 

"He  is  not  fast,"  continued  Massingdale,  getting 
into  the  cart;  "his  amble  is  well  known  in  all  the  neigh- 
bourhood, no  means  have  yet  been  discovered  by  which 
the  pace  of  it  may  be  increased.  Constitutionally  he  is 
of  a  lean  habit,  although  his  appetite  is  good,  and  his 


210  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

kind  master  generous  in  the  matter  of  food.  Come  up, 
Bucephalus.  I  hope,  Dick,"  he  went  on,  as  we  started, 
"that  you  have  not  become  particular  about  appear- 
ances. We  are  not  much  to  look  at,  but,  sir,  our  worth  is 
positively  amazing;  also  the  cart  is  safe,  although 
strangers  are  apt  to  expect  its  sudden  disintegration." 

The  station  is  outside  the  town,  and  we  turned  off 
to  the  right,  heading  for  some  wooded  hills,  the  cart 
rattling  and  squeaking  so  that  I  was  glad  to  have  Massing- 
dale's  assurance  that  the  thing  would  hold  together.  We 
had  not  gone  more  than  half  a  mile  when  Vanne  let  out 
a  shout,  bringing  his  hand  down  with  a  slap  upon  his 
thigh,  and  startling  Bucephalus  into  something  approach- 
ing a  trot. 

"  Man  Dieu,"  he  cried,  "mais  c'est  epatantt  We  have 
forgotten  the  marketing." 

"Auguste,"  answered  Massingdale,  as  he  turned  the 
cart  round  towards  the  town  again,  "permit  me  to  con- 
gratulate you;  you  have  a  wonderful  head  for  business." 

As  we  drove  back,  I  saw  something  of  the  town,  a 
red-roofed,  huddled  mass,  grey  and  ancient,  the  ruins 
of  its  former  grandeur  standing  out  above  the  modern 
buildings,  still  circled  by  the  abbey  walls.  It  lies  in  a 
pleasant  vale,  the  town  of  Cluny,  with  the  hills  dropping 
gently  to  it,  hiding  the  bolder  heights  beyond ;  there  is 
an  air  of  peace  about  it  as  of  a  man  who  rests  at  even 
after  a  day  that  has  not  wanted  in  events;  the  signs 
of  our  own  time  do  not  war  with  those  of  yesterday,  the 
modern  buildings,  finding  themselves  in  a  minority,  as- 
sume an  unpretentious  air,  leaving  to  their  ancestors, 
to  the  medieval  dwelling  and  to  the  house  whose  walls 
were  raised  before  the  Normans  came  to  England,  the 
rule  in  style  and  fashion;  over  all,  showing,  as  it  were, 
the  manner  of  the  place  to  all  who  see  it  from  afar,  there 


An  Odd  Company  Assembles       211 

stands  the  ruin  of  the  abbey  church,  a  fragment,  the 
last  mutilated  limb,  yet  in  itself  a  thing  so  vast  that 
it  proclaims  the  whole  the  greatest  church  of  Northern 
Europe,  to  which  only  the  popes  themselves  could  show 
the  master.  The  streets  are  narrow  and  ill-paved, 
twisting  and  turning  so  that,  if  the  town  were  not  so 
small,  and  the  great  church  a  thing  from  which  to  take 
one's  bearings,  a  man  might  be  in  difficulties  to  find  his 
way;  carved  stones,  snatched  from  their  true  positions 
when  the  monks  were  driven  from  their  quarters,  are  built 
into  the  walls  of  shops  and  houses,  and  have  grown  old 
and  reconciled  in  their  new  homes ;  in  many  of  the  streets, 
and  for  the  most  part  set  to  some  strangely  altered  pur- 
pose, there  still  stand  monkish  buildings  little  damaged, 
a  barn  or  a  guest-house,  a  gateway  or  the  former 
dwelling  of  some  high  official,  rich  in  perquisites.  Even 
if  a  man  do  no  more  than  pass  through  the  town,  and 
in  so  doing  he  would  show  himself  very  ill-advised,  he 
will  carry  from  it  many  memories  of  other  days,  and, 
surely,  above  them  all  the  conviction  that  here  Time 
rests  awhile,  forgetting  his  hurry  and  the  long  journey 
that  he  has  to  make,  regretful  that  he  must,  one  day, 
turn  back  these  old  buildings  to  the  earth  from  which 
they  came. 

We  left  the  upper  part  of  the  town  unvisited,  making 
our  way  to  a  small  market,  held  in  a  broadening  of  the 
street  rather  than  a  square,  near  to  a  structure,  more 
venerable  than  its  neighbours,  which  I  afterwards  dis- 
covered to  be  the  local  hospital.  Vanne  sat  in  the  cart — 
more,  I  imagine,  because  he  wished  to  sit  still  than 
because  Bucephalus  had  need  of  an  attendant — and 
Massingdale  and  I  set  about  our  marketing.  The  per- 
formance amused  me  like  a  play,  and  Massingdale 
very  serious  about  the  saving  of  two  sous  was  a  thing 


212  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

I  had  not  dreamed  that  I  should  ever  see;  yet  he  played 
his  part  very  carefully,  was  obviously  pleased  as  a  child 
at  a  new  game,  and  succeeded,  I  should  like  to  think, 
in  paying  not  very  much  more  than  their  value  for  the 
goods  he  bought.  After  many  smaller  purchases  he 
finished  the  proceeding  by  buying  a  goose. 

"To-morrow,"  he  explained  to  me,  "being  Sunday, 
Loissel  having  arrived  two  days  ago  and  you  to-day, 
we  keep  high  revelry.  My  cook,"  here  he  grinned  at 
me  in  infantile  delight  at  the  possession  of  a  servant, 
"informs  me  that  she  can  prepare  a  goose  better  than 
the  other  housewives  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  that  I 
am  to  be  careful  in  the  choice  of  it.  Watch  me,  Dick, 
you  shall  see  me  very  careful. " 

Thereupon  he  led  me  to  a  stall,  where  presided  a  buxom 
woman  of  middle  age,  fresh  and  of  a  pleasant  appearance. 
He  greeted  her  by  the  title  of  Madame  Marcelin,  and 
remarked  upon  the  weather;  she  replied  that  it  was 
very  hot,  and  introduced  the  subject  of  his  purchase. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  Massingdale, "  she  continued,  horribly 
mispronouncing  his  name,  "but  you  are  late.  Anne 
Bourget  informed  me  this  morning,  as  we  drove  to  mar- 
ket, that  you  would  buy  a  goose.  It  is  unfortunate,  all 
the  world  buys  geese  to-day,  Monsieur  Massingdale.  I 
had  six  this  morning — oh !  but  you  have  never  seen  their 
equal — they  are  all  gone  but  one.  That  I  kept  for  you. " 

"I  thank  you,  madame, "  said  Massingdale,  "but  I 
am  a  man  of  affairs,  I  could  not  get  here  before.  Show 
me  your  goose. " 

The  bird  was  produced,  and,  to  my  eternal  delight, 
Massingdale  poked  and  pinched  it  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  knows  what  he  is  doing. 

"And  how  much  do  you  want  for  your  goose?"  he 
asked. 


An  Odd  Company  Assembles       213 

"Monsieur,"  replied  Madame  Marcelin  upon  a  very 
serious  note,  "you  must  understand  that  there  is  a 
demand  for  this  bird;  there  is  Monsieur  Chaumonix 
of  the  'Vache  Noire,'  who  asks  me  to  name  my  price 
for  it;  there  is  Monsieur  le  Cure"  of  Chateau,  who  says 
that  he  must  have  it;  there  is  Madame  Boulin,  who 
implores  me,  with  tears,  to  sell  it  to  her.  Of  a  certainty 
it  has  a  value,  but,  monsieur,  I  have  kept  it  for  you. 
'  Monsieur  Massingdale, '  I  have  said  to  myself  all  day, 
'  shall  not  be  disappointed. ' ' 

After  this  warning  she  named  her  price;  I  have  no 
knowledge  of  the  value  of  geese  but  should  judge  that 
it  was  beyond  the  bird's  worth.  In  any  case,  Massing- 
dale protested,  which  was  no  more  than  the  due  of  the 
part  he  played. 

"Grand  Dieu!"  he  cried,  spreading  his  hands  wide,  "do 
you  think  that  I  am  a  millionaire,  madame,  to  pay  you 
fancy  prices  for  your  geese?  Besides,  the  bird  is  thin." 

"Not  less  so,  ma  foi,"  replied  Madame  Marcelin, 
enjoying  herself,  "than  Monsieur  Vanne,  who  has  not 
that  appearance.  But,  have  I  not  told  you,  monsieur, 
I  could  have  sold  this  goose  for  more  than  double  the 
money." 

Here  Massingdale  changed  his  tactics;  he  made  away 
with  all  appearance  of  indignation,  smiled  upon  the 
woman,  and  dropped  his  voice  to  a  confidential  tone. 

"Know,  madame,"  said  he,  "that  I  find  no  fault  with 
an  attempt  to  drive  a  good  bargain.  Business,  I  under- 
stand it!  But  I  am  an  artist,  and  an  artist  is  a  poor 
man,  he  cannot  afford  to  buy  expensive  geese.  Also, 
madame,  I  have  at  my  house  Jean  Se"bastien  Loissel, 
he  will  eat  of  this  goose.  Ah!  You  have  heard  of  him? 
Is  it  not  an  honour  that  the  greatest  painter  in  France 
should  eat  the  birds  which  you  have  reared?" 


214  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

Madame  Marcelin  professed  herself  much  impressed. 

"For  the  artist,  monsieur,"  she  agreed,  "it  is  another 
matter.  You  shall  have  your  way;  also  you  shall  tell 
me  how  Monsieur  Loissel  enjoyed  my  goose.  Believe 
me,  but  I  shall  cry  my  eyes  out,  if  Jeanne  Dubois,  who 
cooks  for  you,  does  not  do  justice  to  the  care  which  I 
have  taken  in  bringing  up  this  bird. " 

The  bargain  was,  therefore,  struck;  Massingdale 
paying  fifty  centimes  less  than  the  original  price,  and 
departing  with  his  purchase  grasped  firmly  by  the  neck. 

"Dick,"  said  he,  swinging  the  goose,  which  was  not 
plucked,  "you  must  acknowledge  that  I  have  learned 
the  manner  of  a  professional  housewife?" 

"I  '11  acknowledge  nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  answered. 
"I  know  nothing  of  the  price  of  geese  myself,  but  I  '11 
lay  you  a  fiver  to  a  sixpence  that  you  paid  a  good  deal 
more  than  it  is  worth  for  that  one. " 

"The  gods  dowered  you  with  a  horribly  critical 
nature,"  he  informed  me.  "I  '11  take  you.  However, 
the  price  is  not  the  point.  They  think  you  a  fool  in 
these  parts  unless  you  haggle  with  them;  why,  I  cannot 
understand,  but  they  do.  Therefore  I  haggle  with  them ; 
it  took  me  some  time  to  acquire  the  habit,  but  I  have 
it  now,  and  am  respected  as  a  man  of  business. " 

"Good  Lord!"  said  I,  and  conjured  up  a  vision  of 
this  keen  man  of  affairs  always  paying  twenty  per  cent, 
more  than  he  should. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  cart,  Auguste  Vanne  was 
reclining  against  my  boxes  sleeping  placidly,  and  Buce- 
phalus was  wrapped  in  a  slumber  not  less  deep.  We 
roused  them  both,  and  set  out  on  the  way  home.  As 
we  left  the  town  Vanne  inquired  the  price  of  the  goose, 
fingering  the  bird  with  the  air  of  a  critic  as  he  asked  the 
question. 


An  Odd  Company  Assembles       215 

"Dieu  nous  garde!"  he  cried,  when  Massingdale  had 
told  him,  "but  it  is  robbery;  it  is  abominable.  I  should 
have  gone  with  you;  old  Jeanne  will  never  forgive  me, 
when  she  hears  I  let  you  go  alone.  We  must  go  back. 
Mon  Dieu,  I  will  talk  to  la  m&re  Marcelin ! " 

Here,  however,  Massingdale's  boasted  business  habit 
deserted  him.  He  swore  by  all  the  gods  that  he  would 
not  turn  back  again;  that  he  did  not  care  what  the  bird 
was  worth,  or  what  he  had  paid  for  it;  that  Vanne 
should  walk  the  whole  way,  if  he  mentioned  the  bargain 
again.  So  we  kept  on,  and  the  fat  man  muttered  to 
himself  of  the  iniquity  of  the  transaction  until  he  fell 
asleep  again. 

The  sun  was  getting  low,  and  a  light  breeze  gave  a 
welcome  chance  of  coolness.  The  road  began  to  climb 
the  hill  very  shortly  after  leaving  the  town,  and  soon 
entered  the  woods,  winding  its  way  up  a  steeper  slope, 
twisting  about  the  head  of  a  small  gorge.  Little  more 
than  a  mile,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  from  the  entrance 
to  the  forest,  we  left  the  high  road  and  turned  into  a 
rough  and  deeply  rutted  track;  here  Bucephalus  came 
to  a  stand,  waited  for  us  to  get  down  from  the  cart,  and 
then  resumed  his  amble,  as  if  well  acquainted  with  the 
business.  We  three  walked  behind,  letting  the  horse  go 
on  at  his  own  pace,  and  at  the  top  of  every  rise  the 
beast  stopped,  waiting  for  us  lest  we  should  care  to 
mount  again  for  the  short  level  stretches.  The  country 
here  grew  wilder,  the  quiet  vale  of  Cluny  was  altogether 
left  behind;  we  had  passed  from  woods  to  forest,  and 
to  a  loneliness  that  spoke  of  mountain  places.  The 
scene  changed  very  constantly,  and  we  came  upon  a 
greater  beauty  with  each  turn  of  the  path.  At  one  time 
we  walked  along  a  way  hedged  by  thick  woods  of  birch, 
then  stepped  from  it  into  a  wide  space  of  pines,  sweet- 


216  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

smelling  and  stately,  with  the  sunlight  slanting  between 
their  stems,  staining  the  brown  floor  with  gold;  here 
we  would  climb  a  stiff  hill  that  breathed  us  as  we  walked, 
from  which  we  had  no  longer  view  than  the  trees  ahead, 
there  our  way  lay  along  a  ridge  and  the  country  showed 
rolling  about  us,  rich  and  many-tinted  in  the  evening 
glow. 

For  the  most  part  we  walked  silent,  our  thoughts 
holding  us  to  better  advantage  than  any  speech,  the 
chatter  of  the  birds,  already  preparing  for  the  night, 
giving  us  full  accompaniment.  Once  as  we  came  to 
the  top  of  a  steep  rise,  whence  eastwards  there  lay 
bare  a  great  distance  of  rugged  land,  Massingdale 
pulled  up. 

"There,"  said  he,  pointing,  "Mont  Blanc  is  clear 
to-night. " 

Far  off,  a  point  of  silver  on  the  far  horizon,  I  saw  the 
mountain  glimmer,  and  was  astonished  as  a  man  will 
be  when  he  sees  for  the  first  time  a  thing  of  which  he 
has  often  heard  men  speak. 

Then,  the  track  descending,  we  got  into  the  cart 
again,  and  Bucephalus  took  us  with  many  jolts  and 
rollings  towards  our  destination.  We  crossed  a  large 
clearing,  where  the  tree  stumps  had  scarcely  yet  grown 
weather- toned;  rounded  the  corner  of  a  smaller  slope; 
and  came  upon  a  tiny  hamlet  in  a  valley,  lying  at  the 
foot  of  a  conical  fir-clad  hill,  on  which  there  showed  a 
house  of  fair  proportion.  A  sandy  lane  led  down  to 
the  hamlet,  a  place  of,  perhaps,  half  a  dozen  cottages, 
and  without  a  church,  as  far  as  I  could  see;  the  wheels 
of  the  cart  sank  so  deep  into  the  soil  that  we  were  forced 
to  walk  again.  The  evening  was  very  still,  the  valley 
in  the  shadow  of  the  hills  across  which  we  had  come, 
and  an  air  of  calm  abroad  that  led  me  to  suppose  the 


An  Odd  Company  Assembles      217 

spot  estranged  from  any  struggle  that  induced  the  rush 
and  noise  of  human  differences. 

We  passed  a  brace  of  huts — they  were  scarcely  more 
— then  at  a  turn  of  the  way  came  upon  a  larger  building, 
white-washed  and  red-tiled,  four-square  to  the  winds, 
low  and  with  broad  eaves,  a  terraced  garden  creeping 
up  the  hill  behind. 

"My  house!"  said  Massingdale,  his  eyes  asking  my 
approval. 

"Good  enough,"  I  answered;  and  he  laughed,  I  think 
with  satisfaction. 

Loissel  was  seated  at  the  door,  and  he  hailed  us  as 
we  approached,  waving  his  pipe  to  me  in  greeting. 

"You  are  late,"  he  called.  "Jeanne  announces  that 
you  are  the  most  thoughtless  of  men,  man  petit  Louis; 
and  that  we  are  no  more  than  fools  to  refuse  to  eat 
without  you." 

As  I  got  from  the  cart  and  shook  hands  with  the  old 
man,  I  had  it  in  my  mind  that  I  had  done  well  to  come 
to  La  Fontaine  des  Bois,  but  that,  as  far  as  I  could  see, 
I  should  spend  a  pleasant  holiday  without  other  excite- 
ment than  the  stir  of  many  hot  discussions. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  QUIET  LIFE  IN  BURGUNDY 

I  WENT  to  bed  very  early  that  night  of  my  arrival,  the 
freshness  of  the  mountain  air  after  the  heat  of  a 
railway  carriage  making  me  so  full  of  sleep  that  I  could 
hardly  answer  the  questions  that  were  addressed  to  me. 
I  carry  little  memory  of  that  first  evening,  except  that 
the  talk  was  loud  and  noisy  at  dinner,  and  the  food 
better  than  I  had  anticipated,  that  we  sat  out  in  the 
road  before  the  door  after  the  meal  was  finished,  and 
that  I  fell  asleep  where  I  sat.  As  a  sort  of  background 
to  much  that  is  confused,  a  setting  to  the  dim  picture 
of  Athanasius  Blinkson  fast  losing  his  grip  on  sober- 
ness, of  Hendick  back  to  his  old  talk  of  reform,  I  have 
the  impression  of  the  stillness  of  the  summer  night,  the 
stars  very  clear  above  us,  and  the  darkness  soft  and 
warm  around. 

Next  morning,  at  an  abominably  early  hour,  I  was 
aroused  by  a  scraping  and  clinking  above  the  ceiling, 
which  it  took  me  some  time  to  explain;  in  fact,  I  lay 
listening  to  it  for  many  minutes  before  I  determined 
that  there  was  some  one  moving  about  upon  the  roof, 
and  then  I  was  much  puzzled  to  know  who,  in  this 
curious  household,  held  the  tiles  a  good  place  for  a 
promenade.  However,  the  man  above  saved  me  further 
curiosity  by  slipping  from  his  perch;  there  was  a  clatter 

218 


A  Quiet  Life  in  Burgundy          219 

and  a  rush,  a  cascade  of  tools  and  boards  shot  past  my 
window,  Massingdale  coming  after  them,  but  saving 
himself  from  a  fall  by  clutching  at  the  rainwater  gutter 
from  which  he  hung  facing  into  my  room. 

"Damnation!"  said  he,  grinning  at  me.  "That  was  a 
near  thing.  I  've  made  the  hell  of  a  mess  up  there, 
Dick.  Give  me  a  hand  while  I  get  into  your  window. 
Steady.  Hold  tight." 

"Are  you  hurt?"  I  asked,  as,  with  some  difficulty,  for 
the  eaves  were  broad,  I  helped  him  in. 

"No,"  he  answered  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness; 
"but  my  breeches  are.  That  rent  will  spoil  the  hang  of 
them,  my  son,  even  when  Jeanne  has  mended  it.  Also 
the  roof  is — badly  hurt ;  I  took  quite  a  lot  of  tiles  with  me. 
And  the  gooseberry  bushes  would  have  suffered  heavily, 
if  I  had  landed  on  them. " 

"  What  were  you  doing? "    I  inquired. 

"  Doing?  Mending  the  roof.  Moreover,  ribald  scoffer, 
I  was  doing  it  damned  well,  until  I  slipped.  I  '11  rope 
myself  on  to  the  chimney  to  finish  the  job. " 

He  spoke  as  if  the  circumstance  was  the  most  ordinary 
affair,  the  occupation  one  very  usual  in  a  host. 

"Do  you,"  said  I,  much  amused,  "make  a  point  of 
repairing  your  own  house?  " 

"This,"  he  informed  me,  "is  not  the  sort  of  place 
where  you  send  up  the  street  for  a  bricklayer;  if  there 
is  anything  to  be  done,  you  do  it  yourself. " 

"Why  not  write  to  the  landlord? " 

"You  're  very  ignorant,"  he  replied.  "A  lawyer,  my 
Richard,  should  know  that  tenants  keep  their  houses 
in  repair,  at  any  rate  in  these  parts. " 

"Lord  help  us!"  I  groaned.  "You  '11  have  to  show 
me  your  agreement;  I  '11  stake  my  reputation  that  you 
have  been  properly  let  in.  Where  is  the  bath  you 


220  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

advertised?  I  suppose  I  had  better  get  up,  or  you 
will  be  disturbing  me  by  falling  off  the  roof  again." 

Protesting  that  he  would  yet  convince  me  of  his 
capability  as  a  man  of  business,  he  led  me  downstairs 
and  to  an  outhouse,  where,  judging  by  the  mess,  two 
or  three  of  the  company  at  least  had  already  bathed. 

The  house  was  without  much  of  comfort  in  the  matter 
of  furniture,  and  was  in  bad  repair,  but  the  rooms  were 
large  and  airy,  being  kept,  moreover,  very  scrupulously 
clean  by  the  long-suffering  Jeanne.  The  previous  tenant 
had  been  a  farmer  of  some  position,  but  upon  his  death 
his  heirs  had  sold  the  place  as  it  stood,  and  the  landlord 
had  been  glad  to  find  some  one  who  would  keep  the  house 
and  garden  in  order  while  he  searched  for  another  tenant. 
The  main  door  of  the  building  opened  into  a  large  room 
from  which  the  stairs  to  the  upper  floor  ascended ;  behind 
this  was  the  dining-room  with  a  door  giving  upon  the 
garden ;  to  the  right  of  the  hall  was  the  kitchen,  occupying 
one  end  of  the  house,  and  to  the  left,  a  room  of  similar 
size,  was  the  studio  where  Massingdale  painted  when  the 
mood  took  him  to  work  indoors.  Officially,  I  believe, 
the  room  was  considered  the  host's  private  apartment, 
but  any  one  who  wished  to  do  any  work  which  did  not 
suffer  interruption  was  admitted  to  it.  On  the  ground 
floor  there  was,  in  all  the  rooms,  a  paving  of  red  bricks, 
and  the  walls  were  washed  with  colour  and  unadorned 
by  any  pictures;  although  there  was  much  suggestion 
of  bareness  about  the  house,  and  little  that  could  be 
called  snug,  it  served  its  purpose  as  a  place  to  sleep  in, 
and  as  a  shelter  in  bad  weather. 

I  breakfasted  that  day  before  eight  o'clock,  a  thing 
very  unusual  with  me,  and  found,  when  I  got  into  the 
dining-room,  most  of  the  company  already  through 
with  their  meal.  Marellac  alone  had  not  made  an  ap- 


A  Quiet  Life  in  Burgundy          221 

pearance;  he,  it  seemed,  lay  late  in  his  bed,  and  when 
he  quitted  it  made  for  the  hills  without  delay,  where 
he  would  wander  until  evening,  or,  if  the  weather  was 
wet,  he  would  keep  away  from  the  others,  practising 
for  hours  at  a  time  on  his  fiddle.  The  next  meal,  I 
discovered,  was  served  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  it  was  the 
practice  of  the  house  to  suggest  no  common  gathering 
until  that  hour  arrived,  for  three  members  of  the  party, 
at  least,  were  not  here  for  pleasure  only:  Massingdale, 
Vanne,  and  Loissel  were  hard  at  work;  the  two  former 
in  the  business  of  their  professions,  and  the  latter  at 
that  volume  of  reminiscences  which  has  since  given 
many  of  us  much  delight.  Blinkson  also,  to  my  astonish- 
ment, I  found  to  be  a  person  of  regular  occupation;  he 
laboured  each  morning  in  the  garden  with  more  enthus- 
iasm than  I  imagined  alcohol  had  left  in  him.  Hendick, 
being  the  one  person  besides  myself  without  employment, 
— for  I  should  hesitate  to  say  that  the  dreaming,  which 
filled  Marellac's  head  as  he  wandered  the  countryside, 
should  be  styled  idleness,  since  it  has  surely  given  to  the 
world  a  greater  result  than  our  most  strenuous  endeavours 
— I  went  with  him  for  a  stroll  about  the  woods;  and  we 
climbed  the  hill  for  a  nearer  sight  of  the  chUteau,  and 
lay  upon  our  backs  and  smoked,  and  talked  of  many 
things  but  not,  out  of  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  of  demo- 
cracy and  its  creed  of  socialism. 

After  the  midday  meal  we  enjoyed  an  hour  of  idleness, 
for  the  weather  was  still  very  hot,  and  the  practice  of 
consuming  much  food  at  noon  is  one  that  militates 
against  immediate  activity.  Massingdale,  after  a  few 
minutes  of  idleness,  left  us  lying  about  in  the  shade  of 
the  trees  where  the  garden  joins  the  wood;  the  mood 
held  him  to  work,  and  he  was  of  no  use  to  us.  So  we 
watched  him  depart,  shouldering  his  painter's  materials, 


222  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

to  the  spot  from  which  he  made  a  picture.  Blinkson, 
finding  that  I  had  no  other  plans,  suggested  that  I 
should  go  with  him  into  the  Fore"t  de  Goulene,  where 
he  would  show  me  some  of  the  beauties  of  the  neighbour- 
hood; so,  none  of  the  others  offering  to  come  with  us, 
we  set  out  alone. 

Blinkson  had,  if  possible,  less  appearance  of  respect- 
ability than  he  arrived  at  in  Paris:  he  was  unshaven; 
his  clothes  were  stained,  his  waistcoat  bearing  traces  of 
many  meals  long  since  digested ;  and  the  checks  he  wore 
had  probably  been  fashionable  in  his  undergraduate 
days.  With  his  hat  tilted  to  one  side,  his  eyeglass 
firmly  placed,  and  his  shuffling  gait  that  aimed  at  a 
certain  jauntiness,  he  might  well  have  stood  as  a  horrid 
example,  useful  in  the  reform  of  erring  youth;  yet, 
although  he  was  an  entirely  disreputable  old  man,  as  a 
polite  society  settles  disrepute,  I  found  myself  inclined 
to  take  a  fancy  to  him,  and  to  wish,  which  I  suppose  is 
evidence  of  the  same  feeling,  that  each  evening  did  not 
see  him  a  maudlin,  drunken  wreck. 

He  walked  as  a  man  who  loves  the  business  walks, 
not  to  get  to  a  destination  as  soon  as  may  be,  but  to 
enjoy  himself  on  the  road;  and  for  a  man  of  his  years 
and  habits  he  showed  an  amazing  activity,  covering  the 
ground  with  greater  ease  than  I,  with  youth  on  my  side, 
could  equal.  His  knowledge  of  country  lore  was  wide, 
his  acquaintance  with  forestry  certainly  not  gained  in 
England.  I  fell  to  speculating  on  the  man's  past  history, 
and  to  wondering  what  fault,  or  mischance,  had  brought 
him  to  the  pass  in  which  he  was.  He  talked  of  many 
things ;  showed  a  trick  of  laughing  at  life,  which  I  admired ; 
and  seemed  disposed  to  turn  obstinately  from  any  solemn 
view  or  manner.  When  we  came  to  any  turn  of  the  path, 
for  we  avoided  the  roads,  which  gave  us  a  sight  of  pleasant 


A  Quiet  Life  in  Burgundy          223 

land  about  us,  or  when  we  walked  through  some  majestic 
forest  aisle,  he  would  fall  silent  in  a  fashion  for  which  I 
could  have  thanked  him,  and  we  enjoyed  the  picture 
before  us  without  any  words. 

After  a  couple  of  hours  or  so  of  rough  walking,  as 
we  ascended  a  steep  hillside,  rock-strewn  and  bare,  he 
pointed  to  the  crest. 

"A  pipe  and  a  rest  there,"  he  announced.  "There  's 
a  fine  view,  over  the  vineyards  of  the  Sadne  valley." 

He  had  not  exaggerated  the  fact,  for  from  the  spot 
where  we  lay  down  upon  the  turf,  finding  what  shade 
we  could  in  the  shelter  of  a  hardy  thorn,  we  commanded 
a  fine  stretch  of  country.  From  our  little  mountains  the 
hills  sloped  quickly  to  the  river,  and  to  the  broad  green 
plain  beyond :  the  distant  range,  lying  towards  the  Alps, 
being  lost  in  a  blue  haze. 

"You  think,"  said  Blinkson,  breaking  the  silence  as 
we  lay  and  smoked,  "that  all  this  is  very  beautiful; 
still  having  your  ideals  about  you,  you  imagine  it  the 
incarnation  of  peace  and  simplicity. " 

I  nodded. 

"I,"  he  went  on,  his  manner  more  serious  than  it  had 
been,  "having  journeyed  a  little  farther  along  a  rougher 
road,  stumbling — let 's  put  it  that  way — more  often  as 
I  go,  have  learned  to  know  that  it  is  beautiful,  yet  not 
more  peaceful,  though  the  noise  is  less,  than  any  of  the 
crowded  haunts  of  men.  Man,"  he  cried,  sitting  up, 
"they  fight,  and  struggle,  and  scratch  here,  as  they  do 
in  Paris;  they  scream  about  their  rights  and  they  talk 
of  justice,  and  when  the  chance  comes  they  rob  their 
neighbours  and  their  masters,  mouthing  the  name  of 
liberty.  The  place  is  a  hotbed  of  discontent;  not  because 
they  are  worse  off  than  you  or  I,  or  the  rest  of  the  world, 
but  because  the  fashion  has  come  about  for  workmen 


224  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

to  be  discontented.  To  hear  them  talk  you  would  think 
that  all  the  suffering  and  hardship  in  the  world  was 
borne  by  the  men  who  work  with  their  hands.  Fools!" 

"What  is  their  complaint?"  I  asked,  turning  on  my 
back,  and  staring  at  the  sky;  "and  who,  particularly, 
are  they?" 

"The  men  engaged  in  the  wine  industry.  Their 
complaint — the  usual  one;  they  want  more  money 
and  less  work;  a  desire  which  is  not  peculiar  to  them." 

"  Is  there  any  special  disturbance,  or  is  the  thing  merely 
general  unrest?" 

"At  present,"  he  informed  me,  "it  is  only  universal 
grumbling  and  discontent.  The  capitalist  is  attacked 
on  general  principles;  there  are  agitators  busy  among 
the  men,  urging  them  on  to  a  demonstration.  Yet,  as 
peasants  go,  they  are  well  off,  work  is  not  hard  to  get, 
and  wages  high;  however,  after  two  or  three  good  years 
there  came  last  season  a  bad  crop,  their  pay  dropped, 
I  believe,  a  little.  If  this  harvest  fails,  and  there  has 
been  too  little  rain,  their  demonstration  will  take  place. " 

"Nothing  serious,  I  suppose?"  I  asked;  "a  lot  of  noise 
and  little  result,  like  most  of  the  strikes?" 

"Depends  upon  the  authorities,"  said  Blinkson, 
getting  back  to  his  habitual  jerky  way  of  talk.  "  They  '11 
play  the  damn  fool  probably,  and  have  the  deuce  to  pay 
for  their  pains.  Tough  crowd  in  these  parts,  they  rather 
like  a  row;  I  believe  they  have  always  been  jealous  of 
those  villages  that  rioted  in  the  Midi,  two  or  three  years 
ago.  Remember  the  business  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  sitting  up,  "but  that  was  serious. 
They  burnt  a  chateau  or  two,  and  there  was  blood- 
shed." 

Blinkson  laughed  at  my  seriousness;  he  waved  his 
hand  towards  the  hills  about  us. 


A  Quiet  Life  in  Burgundy          225 

"Quiet  valleys  run  with  blood!  Horrible  scenes  in 
Burgundy!  The  journalists  may  have  their  chance  yet. 
I  hope  they  won't,  however;  it  would  disturb  our  happy 
home." 

"But,"  I  insisted,  "do  you  really  think  there  is  any 
likelihood  of  a  riot?" 

"Very  little,"  he  answered.  "Probably  be  a  lot  of 
talk,  some  window  smashing  and  that  sort  of  thing, 
and,  at  the  end,  quiet,  with  rather  worse  feeling  on  both 
sides.  It 's  an  unimportant  scene  in  the  comedy,  nothing 
more." 

He  lay  back  again  on  the  grass,  silent,  and  we  sat  some 
minutes  without  speaking;  then  he  suggested  that  we 
had  better  be  moving,  as  the  afternoon  was  getting  on. 

As  we  walked  homewards,  I  was  occupied  in  thinking 
of  what  he  had  told  me,  and  in  wondering  whether  this 
fight  of  capital  and  labour  was  anything  new,  as  some 
men  would  have  us  believe,  or  whether  it  was  not  the 
old  feud  of  the  strong  and  the  weak  decked  out  in  new 
garments;  so  that  when  Blinkson  broke  a  long  silence, 
he  startled  me  from  a  reverie. 

"To-night,  Crutchley,"  said  he,  his  watery  eyes 
twinkling  with  amusement,  "when  you  see  me  in  my 
cups  again,  you  will  remember  the  distaste  I  have  been 
at  pains  to  remove  for  the  moment.  No.  Don't  inter- 
rupt. I  like  to  embarrass  people — I  choose  one  way  of 
making  a  fool  of  myself,  you  and  the  others  have  a 
different  method — that  is  the  whole  of  it.  I  don't  want 
you  to  admire  me — I  'm  not  asking  for  miracles — I  want 
you  to  realise  that  I  know  what  I  am,  that  I  spend  my 
life  in  the  best  way  that  occurs  to  me,  that  I  am  a  drunk- 
ard because  it  gives  me  pleasure,  does  little  harm  to 
other  people,  and  because  I  have  failed  to  succeed  in 
any  other  business." 
is 


226  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

I  remained  silent.  Why  the  man  offered  me  this 
explanation,  I  could  not  guess;  I  certainly  had  no  wish 
for  it;  but  his  manner  was  such,  his  humorous,  dis- 
concerting frankness  so  easily  carried,  as  if  the  con- 
fession were  of  the  most  usual  nature,  that  I  could 
scarcely  fail  to  meet  him  in  the  same  spirit. 

"  Well? "  he  asked,  seeing  that  I  did  not  answer. 

"I  cannot  imagine,"  I  answered,  since  he  was  deter- 
mined that  I  should  speak,  "why  you  admit  me  to 
your  confidence  like  this;  and  I  am  not  able  to  give  you 
any  satisfactory  answer.  I  suppose  my  distaste  for 
drunkenness  is  a  matter  of  instinct. " 

"To  begin  with,"  he  replied,  sucking  at  his  foul  pipe, 
which  wheezed  and  gurgled,  "I  have  not  admitted  you 
to  my  confidence:  that  I  am  a  habitual  drunkard  is 
a  perfectly  obvious  fact.  Then,  I  take  it,  your  objec- 
tion is  based  on  aesthetic  grounds?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  I. 

"Good,"  he  continued,  his  amusement,  apparently, 
increasing.  "You  don't  like  me  in  my  professional 
capacity,  that 's  clear.  I  '11  state  the  case.  Probably,  if 
I  saw  you  in  wig  and  gown  hectoring  some  unfortunate 
witness,  I  should  dislike  you  as  much  as  you  dislike 
me  when  I  am  drunk.  See  the  point  ? ' ' 

I  roared  with  laughter.  The  sodden  old  ruffian  could 
certainly  shorten  the  road  with  inconsequent  conver- 
sation; and  the  picture  of  him  in  his  cups  as  a  man 
seriously  engaged  in  the  business  of  his  life  took  my 
fancy  mightily. 

"I  don't,"  I  answered  him;  "I  see  no  point  at  all. 
I  believe  you  to  be  a  man  with  a  fine  gift  for  talking 
nonsense." 

"You  make  a  mistake,"  he  assured  me;  and  although 
there  was  no  appreciable  change  in  the  manner  of  his 


A  Quiet  Life  in  Burgundy          227 

speech,  I  suddenly  became  aware  that  he  was  a  man 
with  a  knowledge  of  the  world  far  wider  than  I  possessed, 
and  that  my  former  attitude  to  him  had  been  one  of 
patronage.  "I  have  an  end  in  view.  We  '11  put  it,  my 
dear  sir,  that  my  profession  is  the  simple  one  that  I 
have  named,  in  which  I  claim  to  be  something  of  a 
success;  we  '11  also  put  it  that,  when  sober,  I  have  some 
charm  of  manner — I  succeeded  in  proving  that  to  you 
this  afternoon — and  we  '11  assume,  quite  impersonally, 
that  my  two  different  selves,  call  them  the  professional 
gentleman  and  the  layman,  so  confuse  the  judgment 
of  kind-hearted  people  that  sometimes  they  are  mis- 
guided into  attempting  certain  reforms.  When  I  meet 
a  man  with  whom  I  fancy  that  my  non-professional 
character  may  hold  the  larger  place,  I  warn  him.  Reform 
is  the  one  thing  I  cannot  stand.  You  take  me 
now?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  devoutly  hoping  that  my  attitude 
during  the  afternoon  had  not  been  that  of  the  superior 
person,  for  I  already  had  a  liking  for  the  man.  "I  hope 
you  don't  think  that  I  should  have  had  the  impertinence 
to  interfere ' ' 

But  he  stopped  me. 

"Never  any  knowing,"  he  laughed,  in  his  husky 
voice.  "My  profession  is  not  much  thought  of,  and 
many  a  good  man  has  attempted  the  impossible,  and 
ended  our  acquaintance.  Are  you  aware  that  Massing- 
dale  is  doing  a  really  good  picture?  We  '11  turn  off 
down  here  and  disturb  him  at  his  work. " 

So  we  let  the  subject  drop,  and  did  not  reopen  it 
again.  It  has  often  been  a  matter  in  my  thoughts  that 
Blinkson  should  have  read  my  case  so  quickly,  and 
forestalled  any  foolish  blunder;  it  has  also  been  a  con- 
siderable relief  to  me  that  he  did  so.  I  never  discovered 


228  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

anything  of  his  history,  the  little  he  had  told  me  on  the 
first  meeting  of  our  acquaintance  being  largely  imagina- 
tive, yet  I  judge  that  he  had  suffered  from  much  well- 
meant  interference  in  a  business  which  he  knew  to  be 
beyond  the  chance  of  change,  and  I  am  glad  that  he 
forced  matters  in  my  case,  showed  me  the  manner  of 
man  he  was  behind  the  drunkard,  and  that,  even  though 
friendship  and  pity  grew  in  me,  I  must  not  interfere. 
Although  he  had  shown  no  hesitation,  I  imagine  that 
it  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  do.  There  is  another  point, 
besides,  of  which  I  like  to  think,  I  take  pleasure  in 
fancying  that  by  this  explanation  he  admitted  me  to 
his  friendship;  in  spite  of  his  great  weakness,  he  was 
one  of  the  most  honourable  and  kindest  men  whom  I 
have  ever  met. 

We  found  Massingdale  finishing  his  day's  work;  with 
him  was  Marellac,  seated  on  the  ground,  his  knees 
drawn  up  to  his  chin,  his  hands  clasped  about  his  shins. 
On  the  way  back  to  the  house  I  tried  to  get  some  con- 
versation from  him,  and  only  partially  succeeded;  his 
shyness  was  a  thing  of  strength,  and  he  had  consider- 
able difficulty  in  expressing  his  ideas. 

"  Have  you  noticed  Monsieur  Massingdale's  face  when 
he  paints?"  the  boy  asked  me,  after  many  ineffectual 
efforts  on  my  part  to  arouse  his  interest. 

"I  have  n't  noticed  anything  unusual,"  said  I.  "Tell 
me  what  you  mean?" 

"His  eyes,"  muttered  Marellac,  as  confused  as  if  he 
broke  a  confidence.  "I  made  sure  of  it  to-day.  When 
he  paints  they  lose  their  sadness. " 

"Sadness!"  I  cried,  astonished.  "You  surely  do 
not  accuse  Massingdale  of  being  sad?  " 

"•Mon  Dieti,  no,"  the  boy  replied  eagerly.  "He  is 
not  sad;  he  laughs;  he  enjoys  his  life;  but,  unless  he 


A  Quiet  Life  in  Burgundy          229 

is  at  work,  his  eyes  are,  very  often,  unhappy,  even  when 
he  makes  one  laugh,  monsieur. " 

I  could  get  no  other  explanation  from  him,  and 
having  failed  to  notice  the  thing  myself,  I  imagined  him 
full  of  fancies,  and  was  inclined  to  style  him  fool. 

That  night,  however,  he  showed  himself  at  least  a 
brilliant  fool,  playing  to  us,  as  we  sat  in  the  road  after 
dinner,  such  music  as  the  valley  had  surely  never  heard, 
music  that  brought  the  peasants  from  their  cottages, 
holding  them  and  us  in  silence  and  in  wonder.  Then, 
when  Marellac  had  gone  to  bed,  as  he  did  after  he  had 
finished  playing,  our  emotions  being  aroused  to  some 
excitement,  we  began  a  violent  discussion  upon  the 
unknown  subject  of  liberty,  and  shortly  the  quiet  air 
rang  with  heated  talk,  and  the  peasants,  comfortably  in 
their  beds  with  the  sound  of  music  in  their  ears,  were 
probably  disturbed  by  more  discordant  noises.  But  for 
the  intervention  of  Loissel  and  Blinkson,  who  introduced 
laughter  when  passion  held  the  floor,  we  had  likely 
finished  the  night  with  blows. 

In  a  fashion  very  much  the  same  the  weeks  went  by, 
the  household  which  Massingdale  controlled  living  very 
quietly,  except  in  the  matter  of  talk,  which  was  always 
clamorous.  I  soon  dropped  into  the  way  of  the  place, 
and  with  books,  of  which  there  was  a  good  supply,  found 
plenty  of  amusement.  We  were  certainly  without  the 
manners  of  the  fashionable  world;  there  was,  besides, 
little  stamp  of  learning  about  our  conversation,  and  the 
appearance  of  an  academic  discussion  was  a  thing 
unknown  with  us;  but  I  will  maintain  that  we  exhibited 
a  decent  standard  of  intelligence  and  were  richly  en- 
dowed with  enthusiasm ;  even  at  such  times  as  the  con- 
versation was  of  a  nature  to  alarm  and  disgust  those 
who  have  no  liking  for  plain  speech,  there  was  a  pleasant 


230  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

spice  of  wit  in  it;  there  was,  moreover,  the  great  virtue 
of  honesty,  and  I  never  heard  a  single  member  of  the 
company  confuse  himself  with  polite  conventions,  or, 
in  a  manner  that  seems  fashionable,  attempt  to  parade 
certain  of  the  passions  in  the  guise  of  heroic  acts. 
Hendick  and  I  stood  something  apart  from  the  others, 
although  we  faced  no  barrier  to  the  fullest  intimacy; 
but  we  lived  a  different  life,  played  for  other  stakes, 
when  we  were  away  from  the  village  and  back  at  our 
work  in  the  world  again.  The  others,  for  I  would  count 
Blinkson  among  them,  were  of  another  make;  their 
work  led  them  to  give  importance  to  things  which  we 
passed  by,  to  shun  as  both  uninteresting  and  of  no 
account  matters  that  engaged  the  most  of  our  attention. 
Hendick,  I  remember,  put  the  point  with  his  customary 
vigour  one  evening  as  we  sat  at  dinner.  "You  artists," 
said  he,  thrusting  his  head  forward,  which  was  his  battle 
sign,  "are  vile  bad  citizens.  Because  your  work  is  of 
importance  to  the  world,  that  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  shirk  your  responsibilities  under  the  plea  that 
politics  and  business  are  only  fit  for  other  men,  that  for 
you  your  own  art  is  enough.  The  man  who  cannot 
manage  his  own  affairs — business  affairs,  I  mean — and 
who  is  not  willing  to  do  what  he  can  to  make  the  govern- 
ment of  his  country  better,  should  be  regarded  in  law  as 
a  child. "  To  which  Massingdale  replied  with  the  ardour 
that  the  proposition  demanded.  "By  the  beard  of  the 
prophet,  man,"  he  shouted,  "do  you  suppose  that  we 
mind  what  the  law  may  think  of  us?  Tell  me,  tell  me, 
in  the  name  of  reason,  why  should  a  man,  not  liking 
them,  mix  himself  up  with  the  stupid  amusements  of 
other  people?  Would  you  have  me  play  football  or 
cricket  because  certain  young  men  of  my  own  age  are 
fond  of  them?  You  would  not.  Then  why  ask  me  to 


A  Quiet  Life  in  Burgundy          231 

study  business  habits,  if  I  prefer  to  be  robbed  instead? 
Why  insist  that  I  should  shout  about  good  government, 
when  you  know  that  we  shall  all  go  to  our  graves  being 
badly  governed,  as  our  ancestors  were,  and  as  our 
children  will  be?" 

I  hold  no  brief  for  the  artist,  I  do  not  wish  to  defend 
him,  he  can  do  that  well  enough  for  himself,  but  I 
confess  to  a  fondness  for  the  creature,  and  am  ready 
to  acknowledge  many  pleasant  hours  in  his  company. 
The  weeks  that  I  spent  at  La  Fontaine  des  Bois  brought 
me  to  a  better  understanding  of  him,  and  beneath  the 
vanity,  beneath  the  fine  contempt  for  other  men's 
opinions,  I  came  to  discover  both  good  sense  and  pro- 
portion ;  apart  from  his  easy  manner,  that  comes  to  him 
as  a  perquisite,  he  has  another  quality,  he  sees  his  own 
position  as  the  outside  world  do  not,  he  knows  himself 
engaged  in  a  very  hazardous  undertaking  which  daily 
renders  him  less  fit  for  any  other  way  of  life.  Since  he 
always  has  great  difficulty,  and  more  than  commonly 
finds  it  impossible  to  persuade  the  outsider  of  the 
peculiar  nature  of  his  work,  and  of  its  unsettling  habit, 
he  arrives  at  thinking  himself  misunderstood,  and, 
being  human,  rejoices  in  the  fact,  running  riot,  very 
often,  on  the  strength  of  it. 

We  enjoyed  a  good  deal  of  popularity  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood; the  "Sign  of  the  Grand  Espoir,"  as  Massing- 
dale  called  the  house,  was  much  visited  by  local  farmers 
and  by  the  people  of  the  district.  They  were  always 
offered  a  generous  hospitality;  not  infrequently  one  or 
more  of  them  would  sleep  the  night  beneath  our  roof; 
and,  for  Massingdale  had  not  made  known  to  them 
the  fact  that  he  styled  himself  an  innkeeper,  we  should 
probably  have  been  ejected  forcibly,  while  our  host 
fought  with  his  creditors  in  the  neighbouring  court  at 


232  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

Cluny,  had  not  these  good  people  given  as  much,  or 
more,  than  they  took.  I  do  not  think  that,  after  the 
first  purchase,  Massingdale  ever  bought  wine,  and  we 
were  supplied  with  poultry  and  other  provender  in  the 
most  generous  fashion.  We  had  the  run  of  the  country- 
side, and  might  shoot  and  fish  whatever  was  in  season. 
Therefore,  and  I  think  he  may  justly  be  given  credit  for 
it,  Massingdale  managed  to  run  the  establishment  on  the 
small  sum  that  he  charged  us,  and,  moreover,  to  supply 
us,  and  a  good  many  of  our  neighbours  besides,  with 
excellent  fare.  How  he  did  it,  I  do  not  know;  Jeanne, 
I  fancy,  was  the  master  spirit.  She  cooked,  and  she 
commanded,  and  she  was  one  of  the  rudest  old  women 
that  I  have  ever  met.  But,  having  undertaken  the 
management  of  the  house — had  she  got  the  chance  she 
would  have  become,  I  must  suppose,  the  chief  house- 
keeper in  hell,  and  would,  moreover,  have  subjugated 
the  devil  to  her  ruling  within  twenty-four  hours  of  her 
arrival — she  did  her  work  with  considerable  ability; 
induced  in  us  all  a  mighty  respect;  and  even  forced 
Loissel  to  attempt  some  amendment  of  the  untidy 
habits  of  a  lifetime.  She  would  bully  us  all  like  a  parcel 
of  schoolboys,  if  we  did  not  follow  the  rules  which  she  had 
framed ;  and  I  have  seldom  seen  a  master  with  less  author- 
ity over  his  servant  than  had  Massingdale.  Late  rising 
Jeanne  could  not  at  all  put  up  with.  She  would  bustle 
into  the  bedroom  of  any  unfortunate  member  of  the 
household  who  kept  his  bed  after  the  hour  which  she 
had  named  the  latest  for  rising — there  being  no  locks 
upon  the  doors,  we  were  defenceless;  would  cover  him 
with  reproaches ;  and  would  assume  an  aspect  so  menac- 
ing that,  I  firmly  believe,  she  would  have  dragged 
her  victim  from  his  couch,  had  he  showed  signs  of 
refusing  to  obey  her.  I  was  often  in  trouble  in  this  respect, 


A  Quiet  Life  in  Burgundy          233 

and  she  bred  in  me  a  habit  of  early  rising,  which  it  took 
months  to  eradicate;  but  Marellac  was  the  person  who 
suffered  most  in  this  matter :  to  hear  Jeanne  abusing  him 
was  of  matutinal  recurrence.  She  had,  I  think,  a  special 
fondness  for  the  boy,  but  she  was  of  the  sturdy  breed 
that  chastens  those  it  loves.  One  morning  as  I  went 
upstairs  for  a  pipe,  which  I  had  failed  to  bring  to  the 
breakfast  table  with  me,  Marellac  cannoned  violently 
against  me  on  the  stairway.  "  Mon  Dieul"  he  cried, 
considerably  agitated,  "she  will  beat  me,  that  old 
woman."  And  with  that  he  fled,  scantily  attired,  into 
the  garden.  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  I  did  him  a 
considerable  service  by  getting  in  Jeanne's  way,  for 
she  was  in  hot  pursuit,  crying  out  that  it  was  past  nine; 
and  had  I  not  held  her  up,  I  can  conceive  of  Marellac 
occupying  a  position  that  he  had  rightly  done  with 
some  years  before.  Even  to  such  lengths  as  that  will 
the  just  wrath  of  an  exacting  housewife  lead  her. 

Yet,  although  Jeanne  led  us  a  rare  life  of  it,  although 
she  bullied  us  because  we  would  not  keep  our  clothes  in 
order,  and  cried  out  on  us  when  we  entered  the  house 
with  muddy  boots,  she  had  many  and  noble  virtues.  She 
worked  without  intermission;  and  it  was  her  wise  boast 
that  she  could  rule  any  man  but  a  dyspeptic,  since  she 
knew  how  to  cook.  Should  one  of  us,  as  often  happened, 
make  his  appearance  late  at  night,  demanding  food,  he 
would  have  it  hot  and  appetising,  together  with  several 
apposite  remarks  upon  irregular  habits;  should  a  dozen 
men,  in  place  of  seven,  appear  for  dinner  without  pre- 
vious warning,  they  waited  for  their  meal,  but  when  it 
came  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  it ;  and  did  one  of  her 
thoughtless  charges  suffer  an  ache  in  his  little  finger,  she 
would  find  him  a  remedy  for  it,  which  always  included  a 
special  and  a  pleasant  diet.  Indeed,  should  I  chance  to 


234  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

fall  ill,  I  would  rather  have  Jeanne,  with  all  her  scolding 
and  with  all  her  want  of  skill,  about  me,  than  many 
another  highly  certified  nurse.  The  good,  rough- 
tongued,  kind-hearted  Jeanne, — if  she  still  lives,  I  take 
it  she  serves  others  as  she  served  us,  for  little  pay  and 
with  scant  rest,  working  faithfully  because  she  prefers  to 
manage  men  rather  than  to  live  at  ease  upon  her  savings. 
She  had  a  master  soul,  and,  but  for  the  accident  of  sex, 
had  been  a  famous  general ! 

The  drought  continued;  throughout  August  I  do  not 
think  we  had  a  drop  of  rain,  and  the  vines  suffered  so 
that  the  vintage  promised  poorly.  The  days  were  for 
the  most  part  cloudless,  and  the  nights  so  hot  that  we 
longed  to  be  cold  again;  it  was,  indeed,  such  weather  as 
we  have  grown  to  forget,  weather  that  a  man  upon  a 
lounging  holiday  could  do  nought  but  praise.  Early  in 
September,  however,  there  came  a  change;  for  the  first 
day  for  many  weeks  the  sky  was  covered  with  cloud,  the 
glass  jumped  with  alarming  suddenness,  and  there  was 
promise  of  a  storm.  All  day,  I  remember,  we  had  hung 
about  the  house,  seeking  a  draught  of  cool  air,  even 
Jeanne  being  affected  to  something  approaching  idle- 
ness. Massingdale  alone  showed  some  energy,  going  to 
the  neighbouring  village  about  the  sale  of  ducks.  Some- 
thing after  five  in  the  afternoon  the  storm  broke  in  a 
deluge  of  rain;  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes  the  sandy 
road  before  our  door  was  running  water,  and  every  pipe 
and  gutter  about  the  house  was  gurgling  and  spouting. 
We  sat  in  the  hall,  observing  the  downpour  through  the 
open  door,  sniffing  the  good  smell  of  rain- washed  earth; 
and  as  we  sat,  Massingdale  came  striding  into  view,  his 
clothes  clinging  damp  about  him,  and  in  his  company 
marched  two  of  the  most  bedraggled  beings  that  I  have 
ever  seen :  a  girl  and  a  boy,  the  former  scarcely,  I  should 


A  Quiet  Life  in  Burgundy          235 

say,  fifteen,  and  the  latter  not  more  than  a  year  her 
senior.  They  carried  packs  upon  their  backs,  and  the 
boy  a  pair  of  stilts  across  his  shoulder,  while  another 
pair,  belonging  to  the  girl,  was  under  Massingdale's 
arm;  both  the  children  had  a  sodden  and  woebegone 
appearance,  plodding  heavily  through  the  slush  with 
their  heads  down. 

Massingdale  conducted  them  to  the  door,  ushered 
them  into  shelter,  and  surveyed  us  smiling,  while  the 
three  of  them  dripped  puddles  on  the  bricks. 

"Allow  me,"  says  he,  "to  introduce  Mademoiselle 
Charlotte  Roneval  and  Monsieur  Henri  Roneval,  her 
brother,  whom  I  found  overtaken  by  the  storm. " 

At  that  the  girl  began  to  sob,  and  the  boy  seemed  not 
far  from  it.  They  were  an  engaging  pair,  fresh  and  clean- 
looking  for  all  their  draggled  state,  and  Mademoiselle 
Charlotte  had  probably  passed  for  a  beauty  in  her 
village;  but  the  costume  adopted  by  the  itinerant  stilt- 
dancer  is  not  designed  to  weather  storms,  and  the 
multitudinous  petticoats  and  much-embroidered  under- 
clothing of  her  tribe  made  a  poor  show  in  the  wet.  This 
fault  in  her  appearance  she  seemed  to  feel,  and  she  stood 
weeping,  with  her  short  skirts  clinging  about  her  thighs, 
and  the  water  pouring  in  rivulets  down  her  scarlet  stock- 
ings ;  while  her  brother,  assuming  the  best  front  that  he 
could  manage,  at  best  a  poor  one,  remained  close  along- 
side, his  own  beribboned  garb  no  whit  the  better,  patting 
her  upon  the  shoulder. 

To  this  scene  entered  Jeanne,  capable  and  resolute, 
and  was  immediately  in  command  of  the  situation. 

"What  does  she  cry  for?"  she  demanded.  "  Cre 
nom,  but  clothes  can  be  washed.  Vile  !  Undress  yourself, 
my  girl.  You  will  catch  cold. " 

And,  but  for  the  intervention  of  Loissel,  she  had  had 


236  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

the  bewildered  maiden  mother-naked  in  the  middle  of  the 
hall.  As  it  was  she  bore  her  off  to  the  kitchen,  ordering 
Massingdale,  as  she  went,  to  get  himself  and  the  boy 
into  dry  clothes  without  any  further  talk. 

That  evening,  while  the  rain  still  hissed  and  beat 
outside,  we  sat  down  to  dinner  a  merry  company:  the 
two  children  at  first  somewhat  shy,  but  quickly  reassured 
and  presently  talkative.  They  were,  it  appeared,  from 
the  far-distant  Landes,  and  within  their  recollection  had 
each  summer  toured  the  country,  dancing  on  their  stilts ; 
they  were  due  to  meet  their  parents  that  evening  at 
Cluny,  but,  they  assured  us,  would  not  be  expected  on 
account  of  the  storm;  also,  they  pointed  out  with  some 
insistence,  they  travelled  much  on  their  own  account,  being 
now  quite  grown  up.  They  had  an  amazing  acquaint- 
ance with  the  high-roads  of  France,  and  presented  a 
curious  mixture  of  worldly  wisdom  and  childishness; 
their  education  seemed  a  thing  of  patches,  for  they  had 
escaped  the  attentions  of  any  schoolmaster;  they  were 
very  proud  of  their  calling,  informed  us  particularly  of  the 
difficulty  of  the  training,  and  were  careful  to  name  them- 
selves artistes.  When  the  boy,  Henri,  had  discovered, 
by  a  whispered  question,  that  Loissel  was  really  the 
great  painter,  his  excitement  became  a  thing  to  watch, 
and  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening  his  eyes  scarcely 
left  the  old  man's  face. 

I  hold  it  a  circumstance  worth  noting  that  Blinkson 
hardly  touched  his  drink  while  the  children  were  present. 

After  dinner  we  gathered  in  the  hall,  Loissel  making 
the  suggestion  that  we  should  be  shown  some  of  the 
more  difficult  steps  in  stilt-dancing,  and  that — this 
with  a  gleam  of  amusement  in  his  eyes — Marellac 
should  attempt  the  part  of  fiddler.  Here,  however,  we 
encountered  a  check,  not  as  might  be  supposed  on  account 


A  Quiet  Life  in  Burgundy          237 

of  the  high-souled  musician  refusing  such  degradation, 
but  by  reason  of  an  unexpected  modesty.  Mademoiselle 
Charlotte  would  not  dance  before  us:  she  was  much 
embarrassed  but  firm;  her  mother,  she  announced,  had 
forbidden  her  to  perform  without  her  proper  costume, 
and  had  warned  her  against  an  entertainment  where 
her  own  sex  was  not  present.  To  urge  her  had  appeared 
an  indelicacy;  such  nice  sentiments  in  a  strolling  player 
should  surely  be  respected.  We,  therefore,  made  an 
attempt  to  introduce  Jeanne  as  chaperon,  but  she,  good 
woman,  was  busy  with  a  washtub,  and  would  do  nothing 
but  leave  the  kitchen  door  wide  open.  Massingdale, 
seeing  that  the  performance  was  likely  to  be  by  the  boy 
alone,  attacked  the  situation  with  many  blandishments. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  a  model  of  polite  entreaty, 
"I  have  no  wish  to  press  you;  you  are,  perhaps,  tired 
and  wish  to  rest.  We  therefore  shall  say  no  more.  But 
should  you  presently  feel  inclined  to  entertain  us,  you 
will  earn  the  thanks  of  brother  artists.  I  understand 
that  you  have  certain  principles,  very  wise  in  themselves, 
but  here,  perhaps,  a  little  mistaken.  Monsieur  votre 
frere,  whom  I  perceive  to  be  a  man  of  the  world,  will 
explain  to  you  that  you  deceive  yourself.  With  us, 
mademoiselle,  especially  in  the  presence  of  Monsieur 
Loissel,  you  are  as  free  from  any  suggestion  of  annoyance 
as  when  you  dance  with  madame,  your  mother. " 

The  boy,  Henri,  at  this  assumed  an  air  of  very  proper 
importance;  murmured  something  of  his  sister  being 
still  a  foolish  child,  and  took  her  aside  for  whispered 
talk.  I  overheard  mention  of  "le  grand  Loissel"  and  of 
"Messieurs  tout  d  fait  distingues,"  and  then  the  modesty 
was  overcome,  and  Mademoiselle  Charlotte  went  in 
search  of  her  stilts. 

Did  Marellac,  she  inquired,  as  she  prepared  herself, 


238  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

know  such  and  such  airs?  He  did;  all  France  knew 
them,  and  had  known  them  for  several  generations. 
Good!  Then  would  he  be  so  good  as  to  play  them,  and 
to  take  the  time  fast  as  he  neared  the  finish? 

So  the  dance  began,  in  the  light  of  glittering  candles, 
with  swish  of  rain  above  the  tapping  of  the  stilts,  with 
now  and  then  a  crash  of  thunder  drowning  the  music, 
and  in  an  atmosphere  cloudy  with  tobacco  smoke. 
Massingdale  had  produced  a  sketch-block  and  worked 
with  quickness,  and  in  eager  fashion;  Marellac  sat 
perched  upon  the  stove,  hugging  his  fiddle;  and  the  rest 
of  us  were  fringed  around  the  walls.  The  children 
danced  with  a  deal  of  skill  and  grace,  calling  to  each 
other  in  patois  at  any  changing  of  the  step,  or  when 
their  backs  were  turned.  But  the  music !  I  would  draw 
a  veil  upon  the  playing.  The  fiddler,  having  caught  the 
spirit  of  the  air,  made  of  it  what  he  would.  Witchery 
and  madness  he  gave  us,  a  wild,  unordered,  bacchanalian 
dance  without  a  thought  for  the  marking  of  the  time,  or 
ever  a  care  for  the  dancers ;  a  wonderful  riot  of  joyful 
sound,  he  played  for  us,  and  showed  himself  a  vile 
accompanist.  At  first  there  was  surprise  on  the  faces 
of  the  two  children,  then  distress,  and  finally  they  came 
to  a  standstill,  the  girl  going  up  to  the  fiddler. 

"Monsieur,"  she  cried,  a  reproach  in  her  voice,  "it 
is  necessary  to  mark  the  time;  one  cannot  dance  to  your 
playing.  Although,"  she  added,  remembering  her 
politeness,  "you  play  very  well. " 

Marellac  was  full  of  apologies,  which  I  believe  to 
have  been  genuine,  for  he  knew  the  duties  of  the  accom- 
panist. Having  been  carefully  instructed  for  the  future, 
he  began  again,  and  the  dance  went  without  interrup- 
tion. I  shall  not  forget  his  effort;  it  was  reminiscent  of 
a  music  lesson,  one  could  almost  hear  the  "one  and,  two 


A  Quiet  Life  in  Burgundy          239 

and"  of  the  patient  governess,  so  well  was  the  time 
marked.  His  face,  too,  was  a  sight  not  easily  forgot, 
a  picture  of  distress,  with  the  eyes  fixed  on  the  dancers 
in  apprehension.  At  the  finish  there  was  much  applause, 
and  the  call  for  a  repetition,  which  was  duly  given. 
Thereupon  Mademoiselle  Charlotte  stalked  to  the 
fiddler,  and  gravely  congratulated  him. 

"It  was  very  good,  monsieur,"  said  she.  "I  reproach 
myself.  You  play  excellently,  when  you  remember  the 
time.  Do  you  play  much?" 

"I  am  learning,"  answered  Marellac,  much  confused. 

"Bon, "  she  answered,  with  polite  encouragement.  " I 
think  that  you  will  learn  quickly,  monsieur,  if  you 
always  think  of  marking  the  time." 

They  danced  again,  and  after  that  again,  being  proud 
of  their  skill  and  able  to  see  that  we  liked  their  per- 
formance; then,  amid  a  deal  of  laughter,  Hendick  and 
I  were  persuaded  to  tempt  fortune  with  the  stilts  upon 
our  legs,  and,  even  with  the  aid  of  long  poles,  we  did 
little  but  fall  about  and  bruise  ourselves.  Finally, 
Jeanne  appeared  upon  the  scene,  announcing  that  the 
girl  should  go  to  bed,  and  getting  her  own  way.  Henri 
Roneval,  not  daring  to  face  the  company  alone,  also 
departed  to  the  kitchen,  where  he  was  to  sleep,  and  we 
were  left  alone,  and  fell  to  admiring  the  sketches  that 
Massingdale  had  made.  These,  studies  of  certain  of  the 
girl's  attitudes,  seemed  to  me  extraordinarily  good,  but 
upon  Loissel  they  had  a  far  greater  effect;  setting  him 
laughing  and  smiling,  naming  their  creator  a  "bon 
garQon''  and  "vraiment  un  petit  peintre." 

The  following  morning,  as  I  looked  from  my  window 
upon  the  earth  cleaned  by  the  night's  storm,  fresh  and 
pleasant-smelling  in  the  sun,  I  discovered  Massingdale 
busy  with  his  sketch-block,  and  I  could  hear  his  voice 


240  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

raised  in  entreaty  as  he  endeavoured  to  quiet  the  rest- 
lessness of  the  little  dancer,  who  showed  herself  a  very 
untrained  model.  When,  later,  I  joined  him  in  the  garden, 
I  found  that  he  had  made  good  use  of  the  early  hours, 
and  that  Mademoiselle  Charlotte  was  already  roughly 
sketched  in  many  different  poses.  One  of  these  studies 
he  gave  to  the  girl,  telling  her  that  she  should  sell  it  to 
add  to  her  dowry,  which  instruction  she  has  apparently 
carried  out,  for  the  drawing  appeared  upon  the  market  the 
other  day,  when  it  fetched  a  good  price;  yet,  although 
she  thanked  him  with  the  strictest  politeness,  I  do  not 
think  that  she  thought  much  of  his  skill,  not,  it  is  likely, 
considering  that  where  Loissel  was  one  should  give  a 
thought  to  lesser  men. 

After  breakfast  Massingdale  and  I  took  the  two 
children  to  Cluny  in  the  cart,  and  as  we  followed  the 
by-road  through  the  woods,  the  evidences  of  the  storm 
were  very  plain  about  us :  bracken  and  fern  were  beaten 
flat  by  the  deluge,  and  little  streams  still  gurgled  where 
there  had  been  no  water  a  few  hours  before. 

We  encountered  Monsieur  and  Madame  Roneval, 
with  a  third  and  younger  child,  giving  a  morning  per- 
formance in  the  streets  of  Cluny,  and  it  was  obvious 
that  the  woman  was  relieved  at  our  appearance.  Upon 
hearing  madame  play  the  fiddle,  I  realised  how  the 
daughter  had  learned  to  judge  playing,  and  I  was 
compelled  to  acknowledge  that  Marellac  must  have 
sounded  a  poor  substitute,  when  considered  as  an 
accessory  to  the  dancing.  We  parted  from  these  excellent 
people  on  the  best  of  terms,  and  had  some  difficulty  in 
excusing  ourselves,  without  offence,  from  being  their 
guests  at  the  midday  meal. 

From  the  talk  which  we  heard  in  the  town,  it  seemed 
clear  that  the  storm  had  done  heavy  damage,  and  that 


A  Quiet  Life  in  Burgundy          241 

there  was  now  little  chance  that  the  wine  crop  of  the 
district  would  come  to  anything  at  all;  in  fact,  from 
the  gossip  that  was  going  round,  it  was  to  be  learned 
that  many  of  the  vineyards  were  altogether  wrecked, 
so  that  from  them  there  would  be  no  harvest  worth 
the  gathering. 

Massingdale  was  inclined,  upon  the  way  back,  to 
a  serious  view  of  the  situation;  announced  that  the 
distress  which  would  follow  came  at  an  evil  moment, 
and  predicted  much  disturbance.  All  talk  of  such 
matters  was,  however,  stopped  for  the  time  between 
us  by  the  sight  of  a  large  motor-car,  a  thing  rarely  seen 
in  our  hamlet,  drawn  up  before  our  door;  and  when  we 
discovered  Yvonne  Carrel  seated  in  the  hall,  a  model 
of  fashion  in  a  very  rural  setting,  we  had  other  things 
of  which  to  think. 

She  greeted  us  in  her  laughing,  somewhat  lazy  manner, 
announcing  that,  since  she  was  stopping  for  the  night 
at  Chalons,  she  had  determined  to  surprise  us  in  our 
inaccessible  retreat;  but  I  thought  her,  despite  her  easy 
talk,  playing  a  part  which  she  could  not  quite  sustain, 
and  I  imagined  in  her  bearing  some  excitement  or  emotion 
that  she  did  not  altogether  hide.  Indeed,  I  hold  this 
unexpected  visit  the  beginning  of  many  disturbances, 
the  first  event  to  mark  the  ending  of  the  quiet  life  that 
we  had  led. 

16 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SOME   DIFFICULTIES   AND    MUCH   UNREST 

AT  dejeuner  there  was  even  more  of  laughter  and  of 
noise  than  was  common  at  our  meals ;  Massingdale, 
it  would  seem,  had  taken  a  hatred  for  a  moment's 
silence,  and  Yvonne  being  seized  with  the  same  mood, 
the  pair  often  talked  together,  so  that  to  catch  what 
they  were  saying  became  a  matter  of  some  difficulty. 
We  were  reproached  for  shutting  ourselves  from  the 
world,  and,  with  Massingdale  very  voluble  in  the  van, 
we  defended  ourselves  and  brought  a  counter-attack 
of  worldly  vanity.  The  discussion,  together  with  the 
interchange  of  the  news  of  the  past  few  weeks,  carried 
us  an  hour  beyond  our  rising  from  the  table,  then, 
when  there  came  a  lull  in  our  talk,  Yvonne  rose,  look- 
ing around  the  garden  where  we  sat. 

"Bon  Dieu,"  said  she,  "it  is  not  badly  chosen,  this 
spot  where  you  live;  I  would  see  something  more  of  it. 
Come,  Louis,  and  your  Monsieur  Crutchley,  show  me 
a  little  of  these  woods  and  hills.  Remember,"  she 
added,  laughing,  "I  am  no  yokel.  You  must  not  make 
me  climb  about  and  spoil  my  dress. " 

The  storm  had  passed,  and  we  were  back  to  the  hot 
sun  and  cloudless  sky  again,  yet  there  was  a  freshness 
in  the  air,  so  that  the  afternoon  was  pleasant  for  walk- 
ing. We  sauntered,  following  Yvonne's  commands, 

242 


Some  Difficulties  243 

along  the  bridle  road  to  Cluny,  turning  presently  on 
to  a  footpath  which  led  us  through  scented  pinewoods, 
and  which  gave  us,  here  and  there,  a  sight  of  our  valley 
beneath,  and  of  the  chateau  on  its  little  hill.  We  walked, 
chatting  of  many  things,  yet  of  nothing  with  any  serious- 
ness, until  we  left  the  wood  and  found  ourselves  upon  a 
little  plateau  of  the  hills,  a  hollow  strewn  with  rocks  and 
gorse,  with  here  and  there  a  stunted  fir,  a  place  no  more 
than  a  few  yards  wide.  Here  Yvonne  sat  down,  upon  a 
rock  where  the  sunlight  lay  in  golden  patches,  showing 
the  lichen  in  a  hundred  tints. 

"Now,  mes  amis,"  she  announced,  her  voice  become 
a  stranger  to  all  laughter,  "I  have  many  things  to  ask 
you.  Louis,  you  are  become  a  stranger.  How  does 
the  world  treat  you?" 

"Well,"  answered  Massingdale,  seating  himself 
beside  her.  "Even  very  well.  I  am  doing  better  work, 
Yvonne,  than  I  have  ever  done  before. " 

"Ah!  your  work!"  cried  she,  impatient.  "I  knew 
that  would  be  well.  You  were  born  for  it,  mon  cher. 
It  is  you  I  want  to  hear  about.  Are  you  well  and  happy  ? ' ' 

I  thought  the  question  strange,  but  I  had  no  time  to 
dwell  on  it,  for  there  were  stranger  yet  to  come. 

"Well!"  replied  Massingdale,  laughing.  "You  can 
see  that  for  yourself.  Happy!  Not  less  so  than  most 
mortals.  What  more,  mademoiselle?" 

But  she  did  not  reply  to  his  laughter,  and  her  next 
question  came  oddly  serious. 

"Are  you  prosperous  ?    Do  you  make  money  ? ' ' 

' '  Sainte  Vierge ,  no ! "  Massingdale  told  her.  ' '  Scarcely 
a  sou  of  it;  but  I  am  not  unhappy  on  that  account. 
Mademoiselle  Yvonne  Carrel,  I  have  the  poor  man's 
fine  scorn  of  wealth. " 

"Imbecile!"  said  she,  and  there  was  a  sudden  note 


244  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

of  tenderness  in  her  voice  that  I  had  not  wished  to  hear. 
"Monsieur  Crutchley,"  she  added,  turning  to  me, 
"don't  you  think  he  would  be  better  with  more  money? 
If  he  could  travel,  he  would  be  the  better  artist. " 

"Undoubtedly,"  I  answered,  not  understanding  to 
what  point  she  led,  "a  little  more  wealth  might  help 
him,  and  still  leave  him  at  a  decent  distance  from  a 
plutocrat." 

To  which  she  did  not  answer,  but  sat  staring  straight 
before  her  with  eyes  that  saw  some  other  scene,  twisting 
her  hands  in  nervousness  upon  her  lap,  her  face  grown 
strained  and  longing.  So  we  fell  silent,  and  I  watched 
Massingdale's  expression  change  to  anxiousness  as  he 
observed  the  woman  beside  him. 

"Louis,"  she  asked  presently,  not  looking  at  the  man 
to  whom  she  spoke,  "why  have  you  changed  so  much?" 

Massingdale  asked  for  no  explanation,  as  I  had 
thought  he  would ;  he  seemed  to  understand  the  question, 
and  to  answer  it  with  what  honesty  he  could. 

"  Time  has  a  way  of  changing  us, "  he  told  her. 

"When,"  she  continued,  not  appearing  to  listen  to 
him,  "you  left  England,  you  were  different.  I  was 
often  with  you  then.  Now  you  avoid  me.  Why?" 

I  saw  Massingdale  move  upon  his  seat,  as  a  man 
who  prepares  himself  to  face  a  thing  he  fears;  and, 
very  heartily,  I  wished  myself  somewhere  else. 

"Things  are  altogether  different  now,"  he  answered, 
and  in  his  quiet  seriousness  I  scarcely  recognised  the 
man  of  extravagant  talk,  who  was  my  host.  "You 
and  I,  Yvonne,  are  working  now  at  more  important 
things;  we  are  no  longer  idle  people  living  the  same 
life.  It  is  not  true  to  say  that  I  avoid  you ;  it  is  something 
that  we  cannot  help,  that  our  paths  run  no  longer  side 
by  side. " 


Some  Difficulties  245 

"They  might  run  together  again,"  came  Yvonne's 
answer,  very  soft. 

"They  must  not,"  he  insisted.  "It  could  do  no 
good." 

Then,  it  seemed,  the  restraint  that  she  had  set  upon 
herself  was  overridden,  her  composure  was  driven  away, 
and  she  turned  to  Massingdale,  clutching  his  arm, 
hurrying  her  words  in  her  entreaty. 

"Understand  me,  Louis,"  she  cried,  "I  do  not  ask 
you  to  forget  the  past.  I  am  a  woman,  I  can  see  what 
you  think  to  hide.  But  it  is  past,  Louis,  it  is  past. 
Go  back  farther,  go  beyond  it,  to  what  we  were  before. 
No,  no — you  must  hear  me,  Louis,  you  must. "  For  he 
had  shaken  his  head  at  her,  his  face  suddenly  stern. 
"Is  it  a  great  thing  that  I  ask?  For  me  it  is.  I  know 
what  you  are;  I  know  what  I  seem  to  you;  that  should 
make  it  easier,  Louis.  Let  us  go  back.  We  are  both 
alone  now,  why  should  we  not?  I  ask  nothing  more  than 
before.  You  would  be  free,  Louis,  you  could  leave  me 
when  you  would.  I  do  not  ask  your  love,  only  that  you 
shall  come  to  me,  Louis,  my  dear  Louis.  I  am  rich. 
You  could  travel.  I  would  work  for  you.  I " 

"Yvonne,  for  God's  sake,"  cried  Massingdale,  his 
voice  harsh,  "stop!" 

But  she  clung  to  him  more  closely,  sobbing  with  a 
passion  that  his  words  could  not  affect. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  implored,  raising  her  face  to  him, 
"  I  did  not  think.  You  shall  not  touch  my  money.  The 
world  shall  not  know  what  I  am  to  you.  Sometimes, 
just  sometimes,  Louis,  we  will  go  away  and  be  together. 
For  you  it  is  not  much,  just  a  few  moments  in  all  your 
life,  dear;  for  me — oh,  come  to  me,  Louis,  come  to  me!" 

But  I  did  not  hear  what  he  answered,  for  I  had  edged 
away  from  them,  fearful  that  I  should  draw  their  atten- 


246  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

tion  by  some  sudden  noise,  and  so  remind  them  of  the 
man  whom  they  had  both  forgotten.  When  I  had  got  to 
the  shelter  of  the  trees,  I  ran,  only  concerned  that  I 
might  get  away  from  them,  get  out  of  earshot  of  Yvonne's 
abandonment  and  misery.  I  pulled  up  when  I  had 
gone  some  distance,  and  sat  down  to  smoke  a  pipe,  but 
I  do  not  remember  to  have  tasted  the  tobacco,  and 
I  could  not  get  from  my  head  a  sense  of  shame  that  I 
had  heard  as  much  as  chance,  had  forced  upon  me.  I 
was  aware  of  the  common  tragedy  of  the  whole  business, 
yet  I  could  not  persuade  myself  that,  outside  of  the 
miracle  that  he  should  come  to  care  for  her,  there  was 
any  chance  of  happiness;  and  against  the  best  worldly 
attitude  that  I  could  summon,  I  held  to  the  conviction 
that,  in  this  case,  Yvonne  would  not  be  able  to  forget. 
I  am  no  moralist;  I  did  not  see  the  wrong  in  the  affair 
— if  such  there  be — but  only  the  pity  of  it,  and  the 
wry  smile  of  fate.  Perhaps  others,  holding  different 
views  to  mine,  may  urge  that  the  trouble  had  its  origin 
in  what  they  call  a  sin;  I  believe  the  judgment  is  not 
uncommon.  That,  on  any  score  at  all,  it  should  be 
held  a  satisfactory  pronouncement  on  the  matter,  is  a 
thing  I  cannot  understand.  When,  from  whatever 
standpoint  we  choose  to  judge  our  own  and  other  people's 
actions,  we  see  a  constant  stream  of  foolish  deeds  and 
perverted  endeavour  about  us,  it  would  seem  but  a 
miserly  encouragement  to  any  further  effort  to  pass  on, 
when  some  one  else  is  called  upon  to  pay  his  score,  smug 
and  righteous,  with  no  more  than  complacent  comment 
on  his  extravagance.  With  morality,  a  thing  which 
few  men  see  in  the  same  fashion,  the  law  and  nature 
should  be  allowed  to  share  the  burden  of  correction,  and 
the  lookers-on  reduced  to  silence,  or  to  a  decent  com- 
panionable sympathy,  if  they  feel  called  upon  to  speak. 


Some  Difficulties  247 

When  any  man  has  made  bad  wreckage  of  his  life,  I 
cannot  perceive  any  single  advantage  in  solemnly 
informing  him  that  he  mistook  his  course. 

In  a  very  short  time,  it  seemed  to  me,  although  it 
must  have  been  half  an  hour  or  more  after  I  had  crept 
away,  I  heard  Massingdale  shouting  to  know  where  I 
had  got  myself  hidden;  so,  with  very  great  reluctance, 
I  made  my  way  back  to  the  clearing.  There  I  found 
Yvonne  still  seated  where  she  had  been  before,  but 
Massingdale  upon  his  feet  looking  about  the  place  for 
me.  They  both  had  now  an  ordinary  composure,  but 
their  faces  showed  a  look  of  weariness,  as  if  the  hurts 
which  they  had  suffered  gave  them  no  relief,  although 
they  rested. 

"I  hope  I  have  not  kept  you,"  I  shouted,  when  I 
came  within  earshot,  "but  I  thought  that  I  saw  a  badger, 
and  I  tried  to  follow  it  up. " 

The  excuse  was  a  poor  one;  yet  to  have  waited  on 
their  speech  had  surely  been  worse,  since  they  were 
only  anxious,  I  imagine,  to  have  some  cloak,  no  matter 
what  its  thinness,  to  hide  their  ill. 

"Did  you  find  it?"  asked  Yvonne,  seizing  the  chance 
of  talk. 

I  told  her  that  I  had  found  nothing,  and  I  avoided 
looking  at  her,  for  I  had  seen  in  her  dark  eyes  a  pain 
that  it  hurt  me  to  look  upon. 

Some  sort  of  conversation  we  maintained  on  the  way 
back,  each  of  us  very  set  on  escaping  for  a  moment  from 
wondering  what  the  others  thought;  then,  as  we  came 
back  to  the  bridle  road,  Yvonne  made  an  end  of  pretence. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  asked  me,  "Monsieur  Bocamier, 
the  Paris  broker?" 

"I  have  heard  of  him,"  said  I,  surprised.  "He  is 
enormously  rich,  is  n't  he?" 


248  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  laughing  curiously.  "A  mil- 
lionaire, monsieur.  He  has  asked  me  to  marry  him.  I 
shall  accept  his  offer." 

I  saw  from  his  face  that  Massingdale  already  knew 
of  this  decision,  and  I  stammered  out  some  formal 
phrases  of  congratulation  in  the  best  fashion  that  I 
could. 

"Thank  you,  monsieur,"  said  Yvonne,  when  I  had 
finished,  lamely  enough.  "I  hope  that  we  shall  live 
together  comfortably.  You  shall  see  me  in  a  new  rdle, 
that  of  the  obedient  wife.  Of  course  you  understand," 
she  added,  with  a  sudden  bitterness,  "that  I  make  an 
excellent  provision  for  the  time  when  my  voice  shall 
have  failed.  A  good  bargain,  monsieur. " 

"I  think  I  understand,"  I  told  her,  letting  her  see 
that  I  took  her  real  meaning. 

"Then,"  said  she,  laying  her  hand  for  a  moment  on 
my  arm,  her  eyes  on  my  face,  "you  must  forget,  mon 
ami.  This  afternoon  is  past  and  done  with  for  all  three 
of  us.  I  shall  not,  however,  tell  the  others  of  my — new 
happiness  just  yet.  We  will  keep  that  for  a  little  to 
ourselves." 

When  we  got  back  to  the  house,  Yvonne  was  laugh- 
ing, and  Massingdale  and  I  playing  up  to  her  example 
with  something  less  than  her  success. 

She  left  us  very  soon  afterwards,  declaring  that  our 
woods  had  kept  her  much  longer  than  she  had  meant 
they  should;  and  as  the  motor  went  ploughing  up  the 
lane  towards  the  neighbouring  village  of  La  Verz6e 
and  a  high-road,  she  turned  and  waved  to  us. 

Later  we  had  a  letter  announcing  her  coming  marriage, 
and  there  was  much  comment  upon  it,  even  Loissel 
laughing  at  the  way  that  she  had  sold  herself.  If  all 
the  women  who  do  what  she  did  come  to  the  bargain 


Some  Difficulties  249 

with  a  heart  as  heavy,  I  hold  the  thing  an  evil  on  the 
score  of  human  happiness  alone. 

During  dinner  that  evening  Massingdale's  behaviour 
was  curiously  fitful :  he  would  rouse  himself  from  moods 
of  silence  to  an  extreme  of  gaiety,  and  would  give  utter- 
ance to  a  stream  of  nonsense  that  seemed  to  shame  a 
word  of  sense,  then  he  would  slip  back  to  thought  again, 
and  sit,  perhaps  ten  minutes,  without  speaking.  I  hold 
it  some  testimony  to  the  good  sense  of  the  company 
that  no  one  rallied  him  upon  a  condition  that  was  so 
obvious.  After  we  had  left  the  table,  as  we  sat  about 
the  front  door  of  the  house  smoking,  scarcely  leaving 
me  time  to  swallow  Jeanne's  excellent  coffee,  he  asked 
for  my  company  on  a  walk.  I  went  with  him,  although 
I  had  far  sooner  have  sat  where  I  was,  and  we  took  the 
direction  of  the  high-road. 

He  walked  in  silence,  very  rapidly,  and  seemingly 
unconcerned  by  his  surroundings;  I  have  seldom  been 
in  company  with  a  man  so  clearly  disinclined  for  talk. 
When  we  had  covered  some  miles  along  the  valley, 
through  which  Blinkson  had  taken  me  on  the  first  day 
of  my  visit,  I  struck  at  further  wandering. 

"Are  we  going  on  all  night?  "    I  asked. 

He  seemed  to  throw  off  his  abstraction  at  my  question; 
suggested  that  we  should  turn  back,  which  was  what 
I  wanted;  and  talked  about  the  stilt-dancers  in  his 
ordinary  fashion.  But  the  mood  soon  passed,  and  before 
many  minutes  we  were  silent  again.  As  we  passed 
through  La  Verzde,  where,  although  the  hour  was  early, 
there  was  only  a  single  cottage  showing  any  light,  I 
made  a  last  attempt  at  conversation. 

"What  the  deuce  is  wrong  with  you  to-night?"  I 
inquired.  "The  grave  could  give  you  points  in  liveli- 
ness. " 


250  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"Sorry,"  he  answered.  "I  dragged  you  out,  Dick, 
because  I  wanted  some  one  with  me.  I  'm  out  to  escape 
talk  to-night.  Look  at  the  full  moon  beyond  those  hills; 
look  at  the  shadows  about  you;  be  thankful  that  you 
do  not  walk  in  company  with  thoughts  that  spoil  the 
scene  for  you." 

"Look  here,"  said  I,  determined  to  rouse  him,  "there 
is  no  sense  in  this.  What  is  done  is  done  with;  you 
can't  make  it  better  by  playing  the  part  of  a  mute." 

He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  I  saw  his 
face  haggard  and  tired  in  the  soft  light. 

"Do  me  a  favour,"  he  replied.  "Go  back  and  ex- 
plain that  I  may  not  be  home  until  late.  You  may  not 
understand,  but  you  are  a  man  who  has  a  trick  of  letting 
other  men  manage  their  own  affairs.  If  I  fight  shy  of 
this  business,  if  I  try  to  forget  the  part  that  I  have 
played  in  it,  I  show  myself  a  most  damnable  coward. 
I  don't  play  a  hero's  part,  but  I  want  to  discover  what 
my  real  part  is." 

So  I  left  him — there  was  little  else  to  do — and  he 
turned  off  the  road  into  the  deep  shadow  of  the  trees, 
and  disappeared. 

Loissel  and  I  sat  talking  late;  midnight  had  passed 
an  hour  or  more  and  we  were  still  in  the  hall,  with  the 
door  wide  open  to  the  night,  smoking,  and  busy  with 
discussion. 

"I  have  my  eyes,"  announced  the  old  man,  as  I 
helped  myself  to  a  last  drink  before  turning  in;  "I  saw 
that  there  was  trouble  to-day.  I  do  not  ask  questions, 
mon  ami;  I  do  not  want  to  know  more  than  I  have  seen; 
but  there  is  a  good  side  to  this  business. " 

"Show  it  me,"  I  asked,  wanting  at  the  moment 
nothing  more. 

"It  goes  to  make  a  painter,"  chuckled  Loissel,  and  I 


Some  Difficulties  251 

was  surprised  to  find  him  so  callous.  "Believe  me,"  he 
continued,  "there  is  so  much  suffering  in  this  world,  so 
much  goes  wrong,  that  when  out  of  unhappiness  there 
arises  some  good,  a  man  of  common-sense  congratulates 
himself. " 

After  that  he  developed  his  point  at  some  length; 
he  showed  me  that  Massingdale  had  changed,  from  a 
painter  of  ability  to  a  man  who  might  do  great  things, 
because  he  had  found  the  rough  side  of  the  world;  and 
he  welcomed  this  last  happening,  which  he  was  careful 
not  to  name,  as  helping  to  the  same  result.  He  spoke 
with  such  enthusiasm,  he  was  so  obviously  persuaded 
of  his  point,  that  I  fell  in  with  his  view,  and  was  for 
seeing  the  best  side  of  the  business,  when  the  subject 
of  our  discussion  made  his  appearance.  He  was  hot 
and  tired,  and  had  gained,  at  least,  a  physical  fatigue. 

"Still  up?"  said  he,  as  he  came  into  the  hall.  "I  Ve 
made  a  discovery.  Adventure  is  about  us ;  the  chance 
of  stirring  deeds  to  our  hands.  I  stumbled  on  an  open- 
air  meeting  of  discontented  labourers,  and  the  devil  is 
in  their  silly  heads.  Shut  the  place  up,  you  two;  I  'm 
like  an  owl  in  the  daytime  for  sleepiness. " 

He  left  us  at  that,  without  more  talk;  but  I  would 
stake  a  good  sum  that  he  did  not  sleep  before  we  did. 
If  he  did  I  have  no  skill  at  all  to  read  a  man's  face,  when 
what  it  has  to  show  is  written  as  plain  as  a  book. 

We  induced  Massingdale  to  give  us  an  account  of 
the  meeting,  as  we  sat  at  breakfast  some  hours  later. 

"There  were,"  he  assured  us,  "about  a  couple  of 
hundred  of  the  fools,  all  of  them  sweating  with  excite- 
ment, and  half  of  them  men  I  have  never  seen  before, 
representatives  from  the  villages  for  miles  around. 
They  acted  the  thing  in  proper  style,  pleased  as  children 
with  themselves  and  their  conspiracy  in  a  wood  at 


252  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

midnight.  Ritaud,  the  innkeeper  at  Mailly,  a  knave 
who  holds  the  excellent  doctrine  that  an  independent 
working  man  must  always  be  impertinent,  was  the 
leader  of  the  crowd;  an  undersized  animal  with  an 
unhealthy  countenance  and  the  manner  of  an  epileptic, 
who  hailed  the  rest  of  them  as  'my  brothers  of  the 
country,'  was  the  chief  speaker.  He  spoke  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  which  every  now  and  again  dropped  into  a 
croak,  and  in  the  space  of  about  ten  minutes  he  gave 
them  all  the  proper  phrases  about  the  wicked  capitalist, 
the  right  of  the  poor  man  to  his  work  and  his  pay,  and 
the  march  to  freedom.  As  a  peroration  he  rounded 
on  the  Vicomte  de  M6nillart,  pointed  a  trembling  hand 
in  the  direction  of  the  chateau  here,  and  promised  that, 
if  the  master  dared  to  show  his  face  in  the  district,  he 
should  learn  that  his  workmen  were  no  longer  slaves. 
I  was  sick  with  the  swine  who  listened  to  him,  for  they 
shouted  against  De  Me"nillart  with  the  best  will  in  the 
world;  yet  I  '11  swear  there  is  not  a  better  landlord  in 
this  part  of  France.  The  neighbourhood  is  going  out 
on  strike,  I  gather,  within  the  next  few  days.  For 
what  reason  they  probably  don't  know  themselves  but 
the  thing  seems  arranged.  If  the  Vicomte  comes  for 
his  usual  visit  here,  and  Jeanne  tells  me  that  the  chateau 
is  being  opened,  it 's  odds  on  this  peaceful  valley  becom- 
ing a  sort  of  concert  room  for  drunken  shouting.  Shall 
we  insure  our  windows,  my  friends?  Shall  we  institute 
a  counter-demonstration?  As  employers  of  labour,  as 
capitalists,  as  rich  and  idle  aristocrats,  we  will  maintain 
our  rights !  A  has  les  o  uvriers  !  What  says  our  socialist  ? ' ' 
"Grand  Dieu,"  cried  Auguste  Vanne,  climbing  on  to 
the  table  to  the  considerable  danger  of  the  household 
crockery,  and  waving  his  hands  in  the  best  manner  of 
the  tub-thumper,  "we  have  our  rights!  Courage,  my 


Some  Difficulties  253 

friends,  the  hour  approaches.  We  demand  the  right  to 
be  appreciated!  An  end  to  this  intolerable  obscurity! 
Death  or  fame,  my  brothers!" 

We  beat  upon  the  table  in  sign  of  our  agreement 
with  these  excellent  sentiments;  and  the  fat  little  man 
bowed  to  us  with  the  utmost  grace,  and  then  implored 
some  one  to  help  him  down.  Hendick  alone  remained 
serious,  and,  when  we  were  quiet  again,  gave  us  his 
views  of  the  matter. 

"You  all  know,"  said  he,  "my  opinions  about  labour 
and  its  treatment;  I  have  not  changed  them.  In  this 
case,  however,  I  am  not  in  sympathy  with  the  strikers. 
I  believe,  as  Massingdale  has  said,  that  the  Vicomte  de 
Menillart  is  a  good  and  just  landlord  and  master,  that 
is,  so  far  as  a  man  can  be  just  under  the  present  con- 
ditions. As  I  see  it,  the  peasantry  are  well  treated 
and  well  paid;  the  failure  of  the  vine  crop  is  alone 
responsible  for  the  present  trouble.  In  spite  of  what 
you  may  think,  a  socialist  is  not  necessarily  a  fool,  and 
I  am  not  inclined  to  blame  the  employer  for  what 
is  nature's  doing.  I  should  certainly  side  with  the 
masters,  if  trouble  should  begin  at  present  in  this 
district." 

"A  convert!  A  convert!"  shouted  Vanne,  beginning 
to  cheer  loudly;  but  he  was  restrained  by  Massingdale 
rising  in  the  pompous  manner  of  a  president  at  a  board 
meeting. 

"Messieurs,"  began  our  host,  very  solemn,  "we  have 
to  welcome  in  our  midst  one  who  has  long  been  estranged 
from  us.  An  erring  lamb,  gentlemen,  has  returned  to 
the  fold.  I  need  not  tell  you  what  a  deep  sense  of  thank- 
fulness fills  me " 

Here,  however,  we  were  prevented  from  hearing  the 
finish  of  his  speech  by  the  bustling  appearance  of  Jeanne, 


254  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

who  inquired  whether  we  wished  to  sit  at  table  all  the 
morning,  and  who  forthwith  drove  us  out  of  doors. 
That  we  should  waste  our  own  time,  the  excellent 
woman  informed  us,  making  a  noise  like  silly  schoolboys, 
was  no  concern  of  hers;  but  that  we  should  cause  her  to 
get  behindhand  with  her  work,  was  a  thing  she  would 
not  stand. 

I  do  not  think  that  the  rest  of  us  took  the  prospect 
of  the  strike  seriously,  but  Hendick  was  in  solemn 
earnest  about  the  affair,  and  would,  had  we  given  him 
the  chance,  have  discoursed  at  some  length  on  the  evil 
of  taking  action  on  insufficient  justification.  He  started 
off  for  Mailly  to  discover  for  himself  the  true  state  of 
affairs.  Vanne  went  with  him.  "For,"  said  the  fat 
man,  "the  repentant  sinner  wants  constant  guidance. 
We  must  have  no  apostasy  in  this  community. " 

Massingdale  retired  to  the  studio  as  soon  as  Hendick 
and  Vanne  had  departed;  he  announced  that  he  was 
going  to  put  in  a  day's  work  on  a  picture  of  Charlotte 
Roneval,  but  I  fancy  that  he  also  wished  to  be  alone. 
Blinkson  was  already  at  work  in  the  garden,  digging 
potatoes  with  the  assistance  of  Marellac ;  so  that  Loissel 
and  I  were  the  only  idle  members  of  the  company. 
After  pottering  about  for  half  the  morning,  we  strolled 
out  towards  the  chateau  to  make  enquiries  about  the 
arrival  of  De  Menillart,  who  was  a  close  friend  of  Loissel's, 
and  whom  I  had  met  more  than  once  in  the  old  man's 
flat  in  Paris.  We  encountered  our  gentleman  as  he  was 
leaving  the  gates  of  his  park,  and  he  greeted  us  with 
the  information  that  we  had  saved  him  a  walk,  since  he 
was  on  his  way  to  visit  us.  He  had  arrived,  we  learned, 
the  previous  evening;  he  was  going  into  Cluny  that 
afternoon  to  meet  some  visitors  who  were  coming  on 
a  visit  for  a  few  days;  and  he  wanted  the  pair  of  us 


Some  Difficulties  255 

and  Massingdale  to  dine  with  him  that  evening.  We 
accepted,  and  said  that  we  would  let  him  know  about 
Massingdale,  which  he  declared  to  be  unnecessary, 
immediately  thereafter  beginning  to  talk  about  the 
discontent  among  his  tenantry. 

As  we  talked  he  led  the  way  towards  the  house,  and 
for  half  an  hour  or  more  we  wandered  in  the  grounds, 
which  were  neither  very  beautiful,  nor  yet  well  kept 
according  to  our  English  standard,  while  he  expressed 
himself  rather  gravely  on  the  situation.  I  had  not 
been  within  the  walls  of  the  park  before,  and  had  had 
no  chance  to  form  any  opinion  of  the  house,  except 
that  it  was  low  and  white,  with  green  shutters  and  a 
red-tiled  roof,  and  that  a  turreted  wing  at  one  end 
of  the  building  seemed  older  than  the  rest.  Upon  a 
closer  inspection,  although  on  that  occasion  I  did  not 
go  inside,  the  place  seemed  little  more  than  a  shooting 
lodge,  exhibited  nothing  of  greater  interest  than  a  certain 
picturesque  and  solid  comfort,  and  suggested  little  wealth, 
or  a  great  distaste  for  show,  upon  the  part  of  its  owner. 
Indeed,  from  what  I  had  always  heard,  I  imagined  the 
Vicomte  de  Menillart  to  be  far  from  a  rich  man,  and 
I  understood  that,  apart  from  his  full  share  of  expenses 
as  a  generous  landlord,  he  spent  very  little  on  his 
Burgundian  estate,  keeping  most  of  his  money  for  the 
improvement  of  the  lands  from  which  he  took  his  name, 
where,  moreover,  he  spent  very  much  of  his  time. 

But  I  had  not  many  thoughts  to  spare  for  the  house, 
since  the  master  held  us  with  talk  that  did  not  want  in 
interest.  Although  he  was  largely  an  absentee  landlord, 
he  knew  the  district  which  he  owned,  and  he  was  no 
stranger  to  the  people,  so  that  the  serious  view  which 
he  took  of  the  disturbance  convinced  me  that  the  affair 
was  no  mere  laughing  matter. 


256  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

As  he  accompanied  us  back  to  the  gates,  his  face 
bore  signs  of  worry  and  anxiety;  he  walked  with  his 
head  bent,  a  small,  thin  man,  very  carefully  dressed,  his 
moustache  and  imperial  already  touched  with  grey,  con- 
scientiousness and  honesty  plainly  stamped  on  his  whole 
person. 

"When  I  discovered  how  things  were,"  he  explained, 
as  we  were  about  to  leave  him,  "I  had  an  idea  of  send- 
ing my  wife  and  the  boy  away  again,  and  of  putting  off 
my  guests.  However,  I  have  not  done  so. " 

"  Surely  you  exaggerate  the  case,  my  friend, "  answered 
Loissel.  "There  will  be  no  unpleasantness  at  your 
house." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  the  Vicomte,  smiling  somewhat 
uncertainly.  "In  any  case,  it  is  too  late  now  to  alter 
things.  Till  to-night,  messieurs. " 

On  our  way  back,  I  inquired  how  long  De  M&iillart 
had  been  a  father,  for  I  had  always  understood  that 
he  was  childless. 

"Two  months,"  Loissel  informed  me;  "and  seven  years 
of  marriage  before  the  event.  Between  ourselves,  mon 
cher,  that  is  why  he  is  become  so  fanciful;  he  imagines 
all  sorts  of  dangers  and  unpleasantness  for  the  mother 
and  the  baby.  Yet  it  is  worth  growing  fanciful,  if  one 
has  a  son  to  weigh  down  the  balance  on  the  other  side. " 

I  did  not  continue  the  subject,  and  I  think  that 
Loissel  showed  me  this  glimpse  of  the  great  sorrow  of 
his  life  before  he  was  aware  that  he  had  spoken;  for 
he  was  not  the  man  to  inform  others  of  his  own  private 
griefs,  and,  after  a  moment  of  silence,  he  spoke  of  some- 
thing else. 

After  dejeuner  Massingdale  went  back  to  work, 
having  agreed  to  dine  with  De  Me"nillart;  Marellac  dis- 
appeared somewhere  by  himself;  and  Loissel,  Blinkson, 


Some  Difficulties  257 

and  I,  after  a  decent  interval,  sauntered  over  to  La 
Verzee,  all  three  of  us  more  taken  than  we  cared  to  own 
with  the  idea  that  the  promised  strike  might  come 
to  something.  The  afternoon  was  hot,  and  the  inn  of 
Luin  fuller  than  was  usual  at  the  hour;  we  learned,  for 
we  ventured  no  farther  than  the  shade  of  its  garden, 
that  there  was,  if  nothing  else,  a  great  deal  of  silly  talk 
going  about  the  district,  and  that  Dupont,  the  Vicomte's 
agent,  a  stranger  in  the  neighbourhood,  stood  a  very 
good  chance  of  being  mishandled. 

We  got  back  home  between  four  and  five,  and  being 
full  of  the  news  that  we  had  heard,  invaded  the  studio 
without  ceremony.  The  room  presented  its  customary 
appearance  of  disorder;  there  was  a  litter  of  odds  and 
ends  strewn  about  the  place,  and  the  smell  of  paint 
was  strong.  Massingdale  sat  in  a  low  arm-chair,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  his  chin  on  his  hands;  before  him 
was  a  finished  picture,  at  which  he  stared.  There 
should  be  little  occasion  to  describe  the  painting;  it 
hangs  now  in  the  Luxembourg,  and  is  duly  admired 
by  many  visitors.  La  Femme  is  to  my  nimd  the  great- 
est of  its  author's  achievements.  But,  when  I  saw 
it  for  the  first  time,  resting  upon  an  easel  in  a  bare 
Burgundian  farmhouse,  I  felt  no  conscious  apprecia- 
tion of  the  genius  that  had  created  it,  for  the  woman's 
head  that  appeared  against  the  dark  background  was 
the  head  of  Joan  Onnington,  beautiful  and  idealised. 
It  is  no  girl's  portrait,  this  picture,  but  the  presentation 
of  a  woman,  wide-eyed  and  sympathetic,  tolerant  and 
touched  with  knowledge,  passionate  and  capable  to 
suffer;  a  woman  very  womanly,  with  the  stamp  of 
motherhood  set  upon  her  face,  very  steadfast,  and 
promising  that  here  is  one  who  will  keep  faith,  bear 
disappointment  without  complaint,  ask  for  no  perfec- 
17 


258  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

tion,  and  cherish  whom  she  loves.  As  I  looked  at  the 
canvas  I  became,  in  some  measure,  aware  of  what 
Massingdale  had  suffered,  and  of  how  through  the  last 
two  years  he  must  have  lived  with  an  image  in  his 
heart  of  whose  existence  we  had  never  known.  All 
that  he  had  shown  in  his  painting,  it  struck  me  on  the 
moment,  was  possible,  and  might  some  day  be  true; 
and  it  came  to  me  on  a  sudden  rush  of  pity  that,  from  the 
first,  he  had  seen  this,  making  his  loss  thereby  far  more 
than  we  had  ever  dreamed. 

But  he  did  not  leave  us  to  admire  his  skill,  or  to  pity 
his  misfortune,  without  comment.  At  the  noise  of  our 
entry  he  turned,  and  sprang  from  his  chair  more  moved 
than  I  had  ever  seen  him.  He  seemed  like  a  man  sur- 
prised with  some  secret  that  he  carefully  guarded, 
ashamed  to  be  discovered,  and  angry  at  his  shame. 
Standing  in  front  of  the  canvas,  he  eyed  us  with  undis- 
guised resentment,  and  I  could  see  that  the  man  trembled 
with  the  violence  of  a  rage  I  could  not  understand. 

Loissel,  paying  no  attention  to  his  attitude,  crossed 
the  room  quickly;  thrust  Massingdale  aside  from  in 
front  of  the  canvas,  flung  himself  into  the  empty  chair, 
and  became  engrossed  in  study  of  the  picture.  The 
action  seemed  to  do  away  with  the  little  restraint  that 
Massingdale  could  still  command;  he  turned  upon 
us  with  a  cry  of  passion,  stuttering  to  get  his  words  out. 

"Damn  you,"  he  roared,  "why  do  you  come  in  here? 
Did  n't  I  tell  you  that  I  wished  to  be  alone?  What 
have  you  come  to  see?  Get  out.  For  God's  sake, 
Dick,  don't  look  at  me  as  if  I  were  to  be  pitied.  I  don't 
want  your  damned  pity,  or  your  company.  Get  out — 
the  lot  of  you." 

We  did  not  move.  I,  certainly,  and  I  think  Blinkson 
was  in  the  same  case,  was  too  surprised  to  stir  a  finger; 


Some  Difficulties  259 

Loissel  did  not  seem  to  hear.  As  we  did  not  go  Massing- 
dale's  tone  changed;  he  started  pacing  the  room,  and 
spoke  with  smooth  sarcasm,  in  a  fashion  not  more  like 
his  ordinary  manner  than  his  previous  violence. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  says  he;  "I  was  most  unreason- 
able. No  man,  of  course,  has  any  right  to  demand 
solitude  in  his  own  house.  Please  make  yourselves 
thoroughly  acquainted  with  my  private  affairs.  Crutch- 
ley,  go  up  and  take  a  closer  look  at  my  work;  follow 
Loissel's  example.  You  will  be  able  to  tell  me  whether 
you  think  it  a  good  portrait;  also  you  should  be  able  to 
offer  me  some  instructive  remarks  on  what  you  suppose 
is  my  condition  of  wounded  sentiment.  Stand  behind 
the  chair,  you  '11  get  a  better  light.  Blinkson,  I  must 
really  apologise:  so  far  I  have  kept  you  in  ignorance  of 
certain  private  matters.  It  is  unpardonable.  This 
painting,  in  which  you  all  show  such  a  flattering  interest, 
is  the  portrait  of  a  girl  whom  I  once  hoped  to  marry. 
Is  there  anything  else  that  I  can  do  to  help  you  towards 
a  better  understanding  of  my  life?  " 

I  remained  speechless,  looking  a  big  enough  fool  I 
am  quite  prepared  to  think,  abominably  embarrassed; 
Loissel  had  turned  from  the  picture,  and  sat  fingering 
his  beard  with  an  odd  distress;  Blinkson,  the  sodden, 
disreputable  old  drunkard,  the  man  whose  behaviour 
was  a  thing  condemned  by  all  persons  of  nice  up- 
bringing, put  a  finish  to  the  scene,  without  embarrass- 
ment and  without  hesitation,  showing  himself  on  the 
instant  a  middle-aged  gentleman  of  very  kindly  tact. 

He  stepped  across  to  Massingdale  and  took  him  by 
the  arm,  his  manner  the  nicest  example  of  good-tempered 
insistence. 

"Steady,"  said  he.  "Don't  let  this  business  become 
hysterical.  Besides,  if  it 's  all  the  same  to  you,  I  'd  far 


260  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

rather  know  nothing  about  your  domestic  affairs. 
There  are  so  many  little  matters  in  my  own  life,  you 
know,  I  have  plenty  to  think  about.  I  thought  you 
were  at  work  on  the  dancing  girl ;  I  suppose  you  finished 
when  the  light  began  to  get  poor. " 

The  sound  of  Blinkson's  husky,  easy  talk  had  its 
effect  on  Massingdale;  he  had  come  to  a  more  ordinary 
temper  before  the  other  had  finished.  He  grew  red 
like  a  child,  stammered  something,  turned  away  across 
the  room,  and  then  faced  us  with  the  determined  look 
of  a  man  who  forces  himself  to  a  hated  duty. 

"You  men  startled  me,"  he  began;  "I  made  a  dam- 
nable fool " 

"Can't  you  leave  the  rest  for  granted?"  interrupted 
Blinkson.  "If  you  were  to  go  and  hunt  up  a  dress- 
suit — it  will  take  some  doing — for  your  appearance 
among  the  nobility  this  evening,  I  think  we  might  all 
be  the  better  for  it. " 

"  My  God, "  Massingdale  agreed,  "  I  think  we  might. " 
And  left  us,  without  more  explanation. 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  Blinkson 
made  the  only  comment  that  passed  between  us  touching 
the  scene. 

"Poor  devil!"  said  he,  and  walked  over  to  the  easel. 

We  gathered  about  the  picture  which  had  caused, 
apparently,  this  singular  outburst,  and  admired  it  for 
some  moments  in  silence.  The  longer  I  looked  at  it, 
the  more  I  became  impressed  with  its  power;  it  was 
not  simply  a  beautiful  face,  finely  painted,  that  looked 
at  me,  it  was  a  living  head,  a  thing  of  many  moods  and 
of  changing  expressions;  no  single  moment  in  a  life, 
seized  and  portrayed,  but  the  presentment  of  a  human 
woman,  frail  and  wonderful — a  woman  resting  in  an 
arm-chair,  clothed  in  black,  to  point  the  contrast  with 


Some  Difficulties  261 

her  skin,  seeing  visions  in  the  night,  the  room  dark 
about  her,  and  the  light  soft  on  her  face ;  a  living  creature, 
dowered  with  high  passions,  and  with  laughter  lurking 
in  her  eyes.  I  could  scarcely  take  my  eyes  from  the  thing, 
and  I  forgot  to  wonder  at  the  painter's  skill,  seeing,  for 
the  moment,  only  the  woman  that  he  had  drawn. 

Blinkson  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence,  and  he 
spoke  more  jerkily  than  usual. 

"  Not  bad,  that, "  he  remarked. 

"Not  bad!"  exclaimed  Loissel,  standing  before  the 
canvas  in  an  odd  excitement.  "  Mon  Dieu,  but  you 
are  right.  It  is  womanhood.  It  is  an  inspiration,  a 
masterpiece,  the  work  of  genius — no  less.  There  is 
not  another  living  painter  who  could  have  done  it; 
there  are  not  many  of  the  dead  who  have  done  better. 
It  will  become  immortal,  I  tell  you,"  he  shouted,  point- 
ing to  the  painting  with  a  trembling  hand.  "And  I 
have  taught  him — I,  Jean  Se"bastien  Loissel,  shall  be 
called  his  master.  Ah,  my  friends,  I  could  weep,  I 
could  laugh.  Even  if  he  never  paint  another  picture — 
which  God  forbid  —  he  has  earned  a  place  among 
great  artists;  he  has  done  far  more  than  even  I,  who 
believed  in  him,  had  ever  dared  to  hope.  They  said 
he  had  technique  without  a  soul;  they  said  he  could 
not  see  clearly  with  the  single  purpose  of  the  artist; 
let  them  see  this!  Ah,  messieurs  les  critiques,  what 
will  you  say  now!  Let  him  be  rich  or  poor,  this  boy, 
laughing  or  sad,  it  does  not  matter:  he  has  shown  him- 
self above  the  little  things  of  life.  Good  or  bad,  an 
honest  man  or  a  thief,  I  do  not  care!  He  is  an  artist, 
an  artist  of  the  greatest. " 

At  this  point  Massingdale  returned,  carrying  with 
him  a  bundle  of  clothes,  and  seemingly  himself  again. 
At  sight  of  him  Loissel  charged  across  the  room,  seized 


262  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

him  in  his  arms,  embraced  him  warmly,  weeping  without 
restraint  and  muttering  incoherent  praise. 

Of  the  four  of  us  I  was,  certainly,  the  most  embarrassed ; 
I  am  ill  at  ease  in  face  of  such  demonstrations,  although 
I  find  them  not  wanting  in  interest,  and  I  am  always 
horribly  self-conscious.  Massingdale  was  not  in  the 
least  concerned;  he  suffered  Loissel's  embrace  without 
resistance,  waited  for  the  enthusiasm  to  moderate,  then, 
thanking  us  for  what  we  said  of  him,  in  such  a  manner  that 
we  could  have  no  doubt  either  of  his  sincerity  or  his 
satisfaction,  put  away  the  canvas  with  a  deal  of  care. 

"There  is  something  in  the  air  to-night,"  he  laughed, 
"that  makes  for  excitement.  First  I  make  a  priceless 
fool  of  myself — quite  how  lamentable  an  ass  I  was,  I 
hope  you  will  never  tell  me — then  you  follow,  very 
poor  seconds  at  the  best,  trying  to  turn  my  head.  If 
I  give  myself  time  to  think  at  all,  I  shall  alternate 
between  horrible  humility  (dangerous  to  me  on  account 
of  its  unusualness)  and  more  abominable  conceit,  finish- 
ing, probably,  as  a  jibbering  lunatic.  Have  pity  on  me, 
gracious  gentlemen.  The  devil 's  in  it,  and  I  can't  find 
the  few  clothes  that  I  have.  How,  in  the  name  of  art 
and  Saville  Row,  can  I  appear  in  that?" 

He  held  up  the  crumpled  and  threadbare  remains  of 
an  ancient  dress-coat,  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  called 
loud  for  Jeanne. 

With  the  aid  of  that  inestimable  woman  and  a  hot 
iron,  by  dint  of  ransacking  the  whole  wardrobe  of  the 
household,  he  at  last  stepped  forth  before  the  admiring 
eyes  of  the  entire  company,  completely  clad,  neither  well 
nor  in  any  one  particular  fashion,  but  in  such  manner 
that  his  intention  to  appear  in  the  prescribed  attire  was 
to  be  recognised  at  the  first  glance. 

As  we  walked  to  the  chateau  in  the  soft  darkness  of 


Some  Difficulties  263 

a  warm  September  night,  Massingdale  showed  himself 
both  nervous  and  in  high  spirits.  Since  Yvonne's  visit 
he  had  seemed  estranged  from  his  usual  manner;  but 
the  outburst  of  the  afternoon  appeared  to  have  done 
him  good,  and,  beyond  a  certain  nervousness,  betrayed 
in  his  excited  volubility,  he  was  himself  again. 

We  were  admitted  to  the  house  by  an  old  manservant, 
who  showed  us  into  a  deserted  salon,  and  departed  to 
give  notice  of  our  arrival  to  our  host.  The  room,  like 
all  the  house  so  far  as  I  could  judge,  was  furnished 
in  good  taste,  mainly  with  ancient  furniture;  it  had, 
besides,  three  long  windows  giving  upon  the  garden,  at 
the  moment  wide  open  to  the  night. 

"I  cast  no  reflection,"  murmured  Massingdale,  as  we 
waited,  "upon  the  generosity  of  my  friends,  but  my 
appearance  is  vilely  suggestive  of  the  slop-shop.  The 
flunkey  noticed  it,  and  in  his  heart  despises  me. " 

Thereupon,  turning  to  a  glass,  he  made  some  adjust- 
ments in  his  attire;  stopped,  his  hands  still  hidden  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  his  shoulder-blades,  faced  the 
windows  with  a  gasp,  and  stood  gaping  as  if  he  saw  a 
ghost. 

I  twisted  round  to  follow  the  line  of  his  gaze,  and 
there,  arm-in-arm,  staring  at  us  in  astonishment,  just 
entered  from  the  garden,  stood  Tom  Onnington  and 
Joan. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

OF  MOONLIGHT  AND  OF  SLEEPING  HOPES 

WE  kept  silence,  facing  each  other,  for  not  more  than 
a  couple  of  seconds  at  most,  yet  Massingdale 
has  since  told  me  that  he  began  to  wonder  if  any  one  of  us 
would  ever  speak  again,  and  that,  for  his  part,  all  hope 
of  making  a  sane  and  appropriate  remark  was  gone 
from  him.  Tom  Onnington,  in  any  case,  was  not 
similarly  affected,  for  he  came  across  the  room  to 
Massingdale  with  a  welcome  that  showed  no  trace  of 
any  embarrassment. 

"This  is  what  we  call  a  joyful  surprise, "  he  announced, 
taking  the  hand  that  was  held  out  to  him.  "It  is 
literally  and  absolutely  years  since  I  last  saw  you. 
What  are  you  doing  here,  with  Dick  too — 'Evening  to 
you,  Dick — and  how  are  things  going  along?" 

"I'm  living  in  a  neighbouring  cottage,"  answered 
Massingdale,  speaking  like  a  man  dazed,  and  looking 
across  the  room  to  where  Joan  talked  with  Loissel. 
"Dick  is  staying  with  me;  so  are  Loissel  and  some 
other  men." 

"Painting  like  the  deuce,  I  suppose?"  Tom  enquired. 
"Doing  down  the  critics  in  proper  fashion?  I  heard 
you  spoken  of  in  Paris  as  no  end  of  a  duke.  I  '11  come 
round  to-morrow  and  see  the  latest  masterpiece.  I  'm 
here  for  a  few  days  with  Joan,  and  then  we  move  on  to 

264 


Moonlight  and  Sleeping  Hopes      265 

Paris  to  pick  up  the  old  people.     Come  and  introduce 
me  to  Loissel. " 

To  a  man  of  his  high  passions,  more  especially  to 
one  who  found  it  so  difficult  to  disguise  his  feelings, 
the  situation  was  not  easy;  yet  Massingdale  faced  it. 
without  public  shame.  As  he  shook  hands  with  Joan, 
murmuring  something  inaudible  in  reply  to  her  con- 
ventional greeting,  he  was  very  clearly  distressed,  and, 
I  imagine,  it  added  little  to  his  comfort  to  know  that  in 
spite  of  our  conversation  we  all  watched  him. 

"I  have  been  hearing,"  said  Joan,  speaking  with  the 
utmost  self-possession,  and  smiling  at  him  as  at  a 
stranger,  "that  you  are  painting  some  remarkable 
pictures;  but  Monsieur  Loissel  tells  me  that  you  are 
jealous  of  showing  them  until  they  are  exhibited.  That 's 
very  selfish  of  you." 

"I  assure  you,"  answered  Massingdale,  and  his  voice 
was  under  full  command,  "that  any  picture  I  intend 
to  exhibit  may  be  duly  viewed  and  criticised.  The 
studies  that  I  have  painted  for  my  own  amusement 
might  jeopardise  a  slender  reputation,  if  they  were 
shown  to  lay  eyes. " 

"  I  shall  be  quite  interested  to  see  those  that  you  are 
willing  to  show,"  Joan  replied,  the  patronage  in  her 
tone  little  more  than  an  insult,  her  failure  to  find  any 
interest  in  the  subject  very  carefully  conveyed. 

I  saw  Massingdale  wince,  and  as  Joan  turned  to  talk 
to  me  he  wandered  off  with  Tom  towards  the  windows. 
I  began  to  lose  my  temper;  it  struck  me  that  my  charm- 
ing cousin  was  wanting  in  generosity.  That,  although 
she  had  been  at  some  pains  to  snub  a  man  who,  she  could 
guess,  was  scarcely  happy,  she  had  also  been  pleased 
to  treat  him  to  an  exhibition  of  the  best  graces  of  the 
coquette,  clearly,  by  every  act  and  movement,  flaunting 


266  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

her  beauty  before  him.  I  could  not  recognise  her  in  this 
new  attitude,  and  I  paid  small  attention  to  her  remarks, 
being  engaged  on  the  attempt  to  discover  her  object. 
Fortunately,  the  Vicomte  and  his  wife,  very  full  of 
apologies  for  their  absence,  brought  the  finish  to  a 
situation  that  was  difficult  for  all  of  us.  After  some 
very  usual  comments  on  the  fact  that  the  company 
was  already  acquainted,  and  when  two  nieces  of  our 
hostess,  who  were  the  only  other  guests,  had  made 
their  appearance,  we  went  in  to  dinner. 

At  table  Massingdale  sat  next  to  one  of  the  nieces, 
a  plump,  pale,  languid,  and  altogether  colourless  person, 
and,  upon  the  other  side,  Joan;  for  a  moment  or  two 
he  let  the  conversation  pass  him,  then,  having  emptied 
his  glass  at  a  gulp,  somewhat,  I  fancy,  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  butler,  he  started  on  a  stream  of  talk.  His 
eyes  were  as  bright  as  those  of  a  man  in  fever,  his  face 
more  pale  than  usual,  yet  after  the  first  glass  I  noticed 
that  he  hardly  touched  his  wine;  there  was  about  his 
whole  person  a  suggestion  of  fire  and  movement,  such, 
I  imagine,  as  would  have  led  a  stranger  to  notice  him 
before  any  other  member  of  the  company.  His  hair 
somewhat  wild,  for  he  constantly  disturbed  it  as  was 
his  custom  when  excited,  his  clothes  ill-fitting  and  much 
worn,  he  yet  moved  and  spoke  with  a  distinction  that 
we  others  could  not  equal;  Loissel,  alone,  showed  some- 
thing of  the  same  caste,  but  age  had  marked  him  and 
dimmed  somewhat  the  sparkle  of  his  life. 

Joan  was  beautifully  dressed;  had  certainly  developed 
nearer  to  her  promised  beauty;  and,  but  for  the  extra- 
ordinary affectation  of  her  manner  when  she  spoke  to 
Massingdale,  showed  the  makings  of  a  woman  of  wit 
and  intelligence.  I  watched  the  pair  of  them  with  a 
deal  of  interest,  and  was,  I  am  afraid,  a  mighty  poor 


Moonlight  and  Sleeping  Hopes      267 

partner  for  the  second  niece;  however,  Torn  relieved 
me  of  something  of  my  duties,  and  for  much  of  the 
meal  conversation  was  general. 

I  remember  that,  shortly  before  our  hostess  gave  the 
signal  for  the  ladies  to  retire,  the  talk  touched  upon 
gambling,  succeeding  a  discussion  upon  Parisian  and 
London  life,  in  which  Massingdale  had  refused  to  talk 
a  word  of  sense,  and  during  the  course  of  which  he  had 
set  the  table  in  a  roar. 

"It  is,"  maintained,  our  hostess,  "a  very  significant 
fact  that  the  whole  of  French  society  is  becoming  daily 
more  fond  of  gambling. " 

"The  clearest  sign,"  announced  Massingdale,  "that 
the  period  of  temporary  obscurity  is  past,  that  France 
moves  to  her  proper  place  again. " 

"But,  monsieur,"  pleaded  the  plump  niece,  very 
serious,  "  you  cannot  mean  that  you  think  such  a  thing 
a  sign  of  greatness?  " 

" Most  certainly,"  he  assured  her. 

"On  what  grounds  do  you  hold  that  view?"  asked 
the  Vicomte. 

"Because,"  Massingdale  informed  us,  his  peculiar 
boy's  laugh  ringing  out  before  he  spoke,  "  your  gambler 
worships  the  kinder  gods;  because  he  is  a  creature  of 
hope,  holding  that  to-morrow  will  be  bright  although 
to-day  is  dark;  because  he  does  not  count  his  costs; 
because  he  has  the  spirit  to  do  the  thing  he  wishes 
without  hesitation;  because  a  risk  is  like  wine  to  him; 
because,  if  gambling,  sterner  gambling  than  that  of  the 
race-course  or  the  gaming  table,  were  not  somewhere 
deep-rooted  in  all  our  lives,  we  should  be  little  better 
than  worms  and  creeping,  slimy  things. " 

"You  talk  the  most  amazing  nonsense,"  laughed 
Loissel.  "What  of  the  suffering  that  is  brought  to 


268  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

others  by  your  friends  the  gamblers?  The  homes  that 
want?  The  honest  tradesmen — if  such  there  be — 
who  are  not  paid?" 

Massingdale  spread  his  hands  out,  and  his  voice 
was  suddenly  become  serious  as  he  replied. 

"What  of  the  chances  that  are  missed  by  those  who 
dare  not  gamble?  What  of  the  dulness — the  one  great 
enemy  to  man — that  is  suffered,  because  we  are  fright- 
ened at  a  risk?  Can  you  name  a  great  man  of  the  world 
who  did  not  gamble — with  his  life,  or  with  success? 
What  of  the  follies  of  the  silly  playing  in  which  there 
is  nothing  to  win  or  lose  but  money?  It  may  lead  to 
the  breeding  of  a  .race  of  gamblers,  to  the  coming  of  a 
generation  who,  hoping  to  advance,  are  not  afraid  to 
move  alone,  even  when  there  is  nothing  but  a  slender 
path  of  chance  before  them,  and  loss  and  bitterness  for 
any  wanderer  from  it." 

"You  yourself  gamble?"  asked  Joan. 

"I  sometimes  risk  a  stake,"  he  answered,  playing 
with  the  stem  of  his  wine  glass. 

"Oh,  how  disappointing!"  cried  Joan.  "I  expected 
to  hear  that  you  were  a  seasoned  player.  I  imagined 
from  your  talk  that  you,  at  least,  would  set  a  good 
example. " 

Massingdale  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  looking  straight 
at  the  girl  beside  him,  and  his  voice  was  certainly  not 
serious,  although  his  eyes  were  steady  on  his  neighbour's 
face. 

"Your  reproof  is  merited,  Miss  Onnington,"  he 
allowed,  "but  you  must  admit  that  I  am  young,  and 
that  it  is  difficult  to  fulfil  all  one's  ideals.  However, 
I  improve.  Hitherto  I  have  been  too  much  inclined  to 
cease  playing  when  my  losses  have  been  heavy.  Now 
I  think  that  I  have  learned  to  double  my  stake  when 


Moonlight  and  Sleeping  Hopes      269 

the  play  is  against  me.  I  hope  to  show  myself  a  more 
persistent  player  in  the  future. " 

Joan  did  not  reply,  and  I  fancy  that  her  colour 
deepened,  for  Massingdale  was  now  no  longer  ill  at 
ease  or  in  any  embarrassment,  but  our  hostess  rose  and 
put  an  end  to  the  talk. 

"I  will  not  listen  to  any  more  nonsense,"  said  she. 
"I  hope,  Monsieur  Massingdale,  that  some  day  you 
will  become  a  serious  person." 

"Bon  Dieu,madame, "  cried  Massingdale,  "why  should 
you  wish  anything  so  horrible?  " 

But  Madame  de  Me"nillart  refused  to  be  drawn  into 
any  further  discussion,  and,  laughing  at  the  "absurd 
painter,"  as  she  called  him,  withdrew  with  the  three 
girls. 

When  the  servants  had  left  the  room  and  we  sat  with 
our  coffee  and  liqueurs  before  us,  the  Vicomte  dropped 
something  of  the  polite  conventional  manner  that  he 
had  affected  during  the  evening,  showing  us  the  anxious 
man  beneath. 

"The  situation  has  developed  rather  alarmingly,"  he 
stated.  "  I  tried  to  reason  with  some  of  my  tenants  this 
afternoon,  but  they  would  not  hear  me.  I  hardly  recog- 
nised them  for  the  men  that  I  know.  Also — which,  I 
think,  is  far  more  serious — Dupont,  my  agent,  has  been 
very  roughly  handled.  He  is  a  man  of  hot  temper  and 
does  not  want  in  courage,  and  I  am  afraid  that,  perfectly 
naturally  after  this,  he  will  only  get  into  worse  dis- 
agreement with  the  men. " 

"What  are  the  workmen's  demands?"  asked  Tom. 

"Broadly,  that  I  shall  employ  the  labour  and  pay 
the  wages  of  a  good  harvest  during  a  bad  one,"  De 
Menillart  replied.  "Much  of  the  harvest  labour  is 
casual.  I  have  neither  discharged  nor  impoverished 


270  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

any  regular  hand,  but  I  cannot  afford  to  pay  men  good 
wages  when  there  is  no  work  for  them  to  do,  and  no 
wine  for  me  to  buy  their  pay.  I  know  that  the  failure 
of  the  crop  has  caused  much  suffering.  Half  the  poorer 
families  depend  upon  their  harvest  earnings  for  their 
comfort  in  the  winter,  but  I  am  not  responsible  for  it. 
I  am  quite  willing  to  help  them  as  much  as  I  can,  but 
I  cannot  meet  their  demands." 

"Of  course  not,"  Tom  agreed.  "Stick  to  your  guns, 
by  all  means.  What  will  the  result  be? " 

"Ah!"  said  the  Vicomte  and  sat  silent,  staring  before 
him  in  evident  trouble. 

Loissel,  who  sat  next  to  our  host,  replied  to  the 
question.  He  was  obviously  determined  to  take  a 
lighter  view  of  things. 

"A  little  unpleasantness,"  said  he,  "a  great  deal  of 
noise,  much  drunkenness,  some  horseplay,  perhaps  a 
procession  with  songs  at  the  gates  of  the  park,  that  is 
all." 

De  Me'nillart  smiled  uncertainly,  then  turned  to 
Massingdale,  who  had  kept  silence. 

"You,  my  friend,"  he  enquired,  "have  lived  among 
them  for  some  months.  They  speak  of  you  as  a  friend. 
What  do  you  think?" 

' '  In  what  way  was  Dupont  knocked  about  ? ' '  Massing- 
dale asked. 

"He  was  stoned." 

"Was  he  hurt?" 

"Yes ;  a  nasty  cut  on  his  head. " 

"Is  there  much  drinking  going  on?"  Massingdale 
continued. 

"Much  more  than  I  should  like  to  see,"  replied  the 
Vicomte  gravely. 

"Then,"  said  Massingdale,  and  for  some  reason  we 


Moonlight  and  Sleeping  Hopes      271 

trusted,  against  our  wishes,  to  his  opinion,  "I  should 
look  out  for  trouble.  There  is  too  much  disturbance 
now  in  the  wine  trade  in  France,  some  of  it  the  fault 
of  the  Government,  some  due  to  the  big  manufacturers. 
You  cannot  expect  to  escape  it. " 

"What  do  you  advise,  then?"  asked  De  Menillart. 
"  Do  you  think" — he  hesitated  somewhat  at  a  conclusion 
— "that  you  could  say  something  to  the  leaders?  Really, 
Massingdale,  they  seem  to  look  on  you  as  the  only 
friend  they  have." 

Massingdale  laughed.  I  was  astonished  at  the  change 
that  had  come  over  the  man.  All  his  fantastic  manner 
had  dropped  from  him;  he  no  longer  gesticulated  when 
he  spoke,  and  somehow  he  had  brought  the  lot  of  us 
to  listening  to  his  words  in  silence  and  respect. 

"No,"  he  answered;  "I  can  talk  many  forms  of 
nonsense,  but  not  the  sort  that  would  suit  a  half -drunken 
labourer  out  on  strike.  I  am  sorry,  Vicomte,  but  it 
can't  be  done.  You  will  not  give  way  to  them,  that  I 
know.  There  is  not,  however,  any  reason  why  things 
should  be  very  serious.  A  little  rioting;  some  stacks, 
possibly  a  barn  or  two,  burnt ;  a  good  deal  of  wine  stolen, 
and,  as  Loissel  says,  that  is  all. " 

"  Do  you  think, "  our  host  continued,  and  he  was  now 
very  serious  indeed,  "that  it  would  be  advisable  to  send 
my  guests  and  my  wife  and  son  away?" 

"I  am  sure  that  it  would  do  more  harm  than  good," 
Massingdale  told  him.  "Your  tenants  watch  all  that 
you  do,  and  they  would  call  such  an  action  an  insult 
to  them.  Drunkenness  is  all  you  have  to  fear.  See 
that  they  don't  get  hold  of  much  to  drink.  Knock  in 
the  barrels  in  all  the  cellars  that  you  own  here,  and  very 
little  will  happen. " 

"Yes,    my   friend,    yes,"    murmured    De    Menillart. 


272  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"You  are  right  there,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  do.  They 
will  not  like  it." 

Talk  dropped  between  us  for  a  moment.  We  were, 
I  fancy,  all  busy  with  imagining  the  chances  of  the 
next  few  days.  Then  the  Vicomte  rose. 

"You  are  a  poor  comforter  at  best,"  he  laughed, 
addressing  Massingdale.  "But  we  must  not  forget 
our  duty  in  the  salon,  and  we  must  not  talk  of  our 
fears  when  we  get  there." 

After  we  had  spent  half  an  hour  or  more  in  polite 
conversation,  carried  on  to  the  accompaniment  of  the 
indifferent  playing  of  the  plump  niece,  who  sat  at  the 
piano,  I  must  suppose,  because  she  disliked  conversation 
and  not  on  account  of  any  love  of  music,  we  wandered 
out  to  the  terrace  in  front  of  the  windows.  Seeing  that 
the  others  were  engaged  in  talk,  Tom  and  I  made  our 
escape  with  the  intention  of  securing  a  quiet  smoke  in 
the  gardens.  The  moon  was  full,  and  already  high  in  the 
heavens,  the  scene  about  us  more  beautiful  than  in 
the  day,  and  the  night  still  and  fine,  with  no  cloud  in  the 
sky.  Turning  down  a  path  which  was  hidden  from  the 
terrace  by  a  shrubbery,  we  came  to  a  summer-house 
built  upon  a  little  platform  on  the  hillside,  and  com- 
manding from  its  balcony  a  fine  prospect  of  the  valley 
beneath.  In  the  thin  light  the  country  seemed  to  sleep 
softly  and  in  great  enjoyment  of  its  rest;  a  light  mist 
lay  in  the  hollows,  calm  and  untroubled,  like  a  great  lake 
of  water  lapping  the  feet  of  the  hills;  and  all  about  us 
there  was  no  sound  to  disturb  the  quiet  of  the  night. 
On  every  side,  the  highlands  shut  us  in,  dark  and  silent, 
with  the  deep,  rich  shadows  hanging  heavily  upon  the 
slopes;  and  full  on  our  little  gallery  the  moon  shone, 
lighting  the  place  for  us  with  gentler  light  than  that  of 
day. 


Moonlight  and  Sleeping  Hopes      273 

The  summer-house  screened  us  from  the  path  behind, 
and  we  leaned  upon  the  hand  rail,  staring  in  silence  at 
the  sloping  hillside  underneath  our  feet.  After  a  few 
moments  Tom  stirred  uneasily,  threw  his  cigarette 
away,  watching  its  fall  with  close  attention,  and  then 
began  speaking  quietly,  as  if  the  night  affected  him. 

"Tell  me,  Dick,"  he  asked,  "is  Massingdale's  dress 
an  affectation  or  is  he  really  an  impecunious  devotee 
of  the  arts,  without  the  money  to  buy  himself  a  decent 
suit?" 

"He  is  pretty  well  on  the  rocks  as  far  as  money  is 
concerned, "  I  answered,  in  the  same  low  tone. 

"I  '11  be  damned  if  I  can  understand  it,"  Tom  argued. 
"The  man  is  more  than  a  mere  bug  at  his  job,  he  is  a 
fine  artist.  I  saw  some  of  his  work  the  other  day,  and 
every  one  was  talking  about  it. " 

"  It 's  a  slow  business, "  I  informed  him,  "  and  Massing- 
dale  does  n't  seem  in  the  least  concerned  about  making 
money.  It 's  quite  impossible  to  talk  business  with 
him.  However,  although  he  won't  say  anything  about 
it,  I  fancy  he  came  so  near  to  starving  about  a  year 
ago  that  he  is  anxious  not  to  get  into  the  same  pass 
again." 

"The  devil  he  did,"  answered  Tom.  "I  never  heard 
of  that.  Confound  it,  here  is  some  one  coming ! " 

There  was  a  noise  of  footsteps  on  the  path  at  the 
other  side  of  the  summer-house,  so  we  stepped  into  the 
darkness  of  the  shelter  to  see  who  came  to  disturb  us. 
The  place  was  clearly  never  used,  it  was  thick  with 
dust,  the  door  stood,  wedged,  half-open,  and  after  the 
moonlight  the  inside  was  as  black  as  the  pit;  through 
the  windows,  of  which  much  of  the  glass  was  broken, 
and  through  the  door,  we  had  a  good  view  of  the  open 
space  behind  the  building,  a  little  gravelled  circle  with 

18 


274  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

a  tiny  basin,  empty  of  water,  in  the  middle,  a  place  shut 
in  with  trees,  with  an  air  of  neglect  about  it,  as  if  no 
gardener  came  there.  Just  entering  the  open  space,  not 
four  yards  from  our  shelter,  and  with  the  moonlight 
strong  on  their  faces,  walked  Joan  and  Massingdale. 

"Curse!"  whispered  Tom  in  my  ear.  "Don't  move, 
Dick.  They  won't  stop  here,  and  I  '11  be  shot  if  I  want 
to  meet  them  together. " 

I  was  of  his  opinion,  and,  like  a  couple  of  fools, 
we  gave  no  sign  of  our  presence,  being  for  our  pains 
forced  into  eavesdropping  in  a  fashion  which  I  do  not 
care  to  think  about.  For,  after  the  first  few  seconds 
that  we  had  wasted,  to  discover  ourselves  became 
impossible. 

Joan  stopped  while  Tom  was  whispering;  she  had 
glanced  at  the  summer-house,  and  had  come  to  a  stand 
the  other  side  of  the  basin,  her  left  foot  resting  on  the 
edge.  She  was  without  a  shawl  or  any  wrap,  the  moon- 
light gleamed  on  her  shoulders  and  arms,  and  showed 
her  a  woman  very  beautiful  in  face  and  figure,  of  which 
fact,  I  take  it,  she  was  conscious  at  the  moment,  for  she 
looked  at  the  man  beside  her  as  if  she  were  sure  of  her 
power. 

"Well,  Mr.  Massingdale,"  she  said,  playing  with  a 
gold  chain  that  hung  about  her  neck,  "I  am  very  curious 
to  know  what  you  have  to  say  to  me. " 

The  man  stood  about  two  feet  away  from  her,  some- 
what stiff  and  strained  in  his  pose,  his  face  pale,  his 
eyes  steady  upon  the  girl  in  front  of  him. 

"You  are,"  he  said,  giving  no  direct  reply  to  her 
question,  and  speaking  with  a  curious  distinctness, 
somewhat  slow,  yet  scarcely  above  his  breath,  "more 
of  a  woman  than  when  I  left  you.  You  are  much  nearer 
to  the  beauty  that  will  come  to  you.  But  you  are  bored. 


Moonlight  and  Sleeping  Hopes      275 

Why  do  you  let  yourself  grow  bored  in  this  good  world, 
Joan?" 

The  girl  ceased  playing  with  her  chain,  moved  her 
foot  from  the  rim  of  the  basin,  and  met  her  companion's 
glance  with  steadiness. 

"I  don't  think  that  this  conversation  amuses  me, 
Mr.  Massingdale, "  she  replied,  laying  a  slight  emphasis 
upon  the  title.  "Will  you  take  me  back  to  the  house, 
please?" 

Massingdale  did  not  stir,  and  as  he  answered  there 
was  no  change  in  his  voice  or  his  expression. 

"I  cannot  prevent  you  from  returning,"  said  he,  "I 
can  only  ask  that  you  will  not.  You  have  nothing  to 
fear  from  me — except  the  inevitable  contamination  of 
my  presence.  If  it  pleases  you,  I  will  not  make  use 
of  your  name.  Why  have  you  tried  to  become  like 
many  of  the  girls  of  your  own  age  and  station,  when 
in  doing  so  you  find  so  little  profit?  " 

"Mr.  Massingdale,"  cried  Joan,  her  colour  high,  her 
head  thrown  back,  "you  forget  that  you  have  ceased 
to  be  anything  but  a  stranger  to  me.  I  wish  to  return 
to  the  house. " 

"Yet  you  will  wait  until  I  have  finished  what  I  have 
to  say,"  Massingdale  answered  calmly,  and  Joan  did 
not  move.  "  You  say  that  I  am  become  a  stranger  to 
you.  You  make  a  mistake.  When,  on  a  certain  spring 
day,  you  made  me  certain  promises — promises  that  you 
had  a  perfect  right  to  break — you  killed  the  strangeness 
between  us.  It  is  dead,  long  dead;  not  you,  not  con- 
vention, not  distance,  not  absence,  neither  suffering  nor 
wrong  can  give  it  life  again.  Therefore,  you  will  hear 
me." 

"  Please  finish  what  you  have  to  say  as  quickly  as  you 
can,  I  am  getting  cold,"  Joan  asked,  and  although  her 


276  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

voice  was  calm  and  polite,  she  no  longer  looked  at  the 
man  to  whom  she  spoke. 

He,  for  his  part,  stood  silent  a  moment,  his  eyes  alone 
showing  the  strength  of  his  passion,  then  following  an 
odd  gesture  of  his  arms,  he  spoke  again,  his  words  hurried, 
his  voice  low  and  sometimes  trembling. 

"I  do  not  seek  to  reopen  the  past,"  he  pleaded;  "I 
do  not  ask  to  know  what  you  still  think  of  me;  but 
I  must  speak.  You  and  I  have  stepped  beyond  the 
borders  of  convention.  For  a  little  time,  once,  we  were 
more  than  polite,  civilised  people  together,  we  were  man 
and  woman  making  each  other's  real  acquaintance  in 
the  hope  that  our  journey  together  might  last  till  death. 
I  know  what  you  would  say:  it  is  not  true.  It  is  not 
done  with,  although  it  may  be  past  and  finished,  that 
time  when  we  learned  to  know  each  other.  You  cannot 
kill  the  past:  that  which  you  have  done  must  live,  to 
affect  your  life  and  mine  until  the  end.  Love  may  be 
gone  for  you — I  do  not  want  to  talk  of  that — but  you 
must  not  forget  that  it  once  lived.  Although  I  may  be 
the  blackguard  that  you  have  named  me,  I  was  once 
your  lover;  you  once  talked  to  me  of  the  real  things 
that  move  us;  you  once  showed  me  the  woman  that 
lives  in  you.  Do  you  think  that  I  forget  that?  Do 
you  think  that,  no  matter  what  the  change  in  me,  you 
should  bring  between  us  the  barrier  of  strangeness, 
should  deny  me  the  few  words  that  you  would  give  to 
an  old  friend?" 

He  stopped;  waited  for  some  answer;  and  then,  since 
she  said  nothing,  continued  speaking. 

"  I  met  you  to-night, "  he  went  on,  "not  knowing,  until 
I  saw  you,  that  you  were  in  France.  I  watched  you. 
You  knew  that  I  should  do  so ;  you  were  sure  of  it.  You 
played  for  me  a  silly  comedy;  the  mood  took  you,  and 


Moonlight  and  Sleeping  Hopes      277 

you  had  your  way.  You  showed  me  the  beauty  of  your 
eyes — I  knew  before  that  they  were  beautiful;  you 
showed  me  that  you  had  the  power  to  appeal  to  a  man's 
senses,  to  make  him  mad  and  longing — I  have  never 
doubted  that  you  could  do  that,  if  you  wished  it;  you 
showed  me  that  you  could  play  the  part  of  the  coquette — 
there  you  were  strange  to  me,  but  there  is  no  woman  on 
God's  earth  who  cannot  play  the  part  with  a  success 
according  to  her  beauty.  Why  you  did  this  I  do  not 
know.  Were  you  afraid  that  I  had  forgotten  that  you 
are  beautiful?  I  should  have  remembered  that  when  I 
first  saw  you  again. " 

He  paused  a  second  time ;  but  still  Joan  had  no  words 
for  him.  She  held  her  hands  clenched  at  her  sides, 
and  there  was  something  of  fear  in  her  eyes. 

"You  played  a  silly  comedy, "  he  repeated,  seeing  that 
she  did  not  answer.  "I  am  no  such  fool  that  I  cannot 
see  beneath  your  playing.  You  are  tired,  bored,  you 
have  lost  all  real  interest  in  the  things  about  you.  I 
want  to  know  why.  I  am  an  artist,  and  I  do  not  like 
to  see  beautiful  things  spoiled.  I  am  not  less  steadfast 
than  other  men,  and  I  do  not  forget.  I  see  you  wasted, 
dimmed,  your  true  self  hid,  and  I  must  know  what  it  is 
that  hurts  you.  I  will  know  it. "  The  man  now  moved 
for  the  first  time  since  he  had  begun  speaking;  he  stepped 
close  to  the  girl,  his  eyes  shone  as  in  fever,  and  his 
voice  was  broken.  "Oh,  I  know  your  answer  to  me," 
he  told  her;  "I  know  that  I  behave  as  no  ordinary  gentle- 
man should.  I  am  no  ordinary  gentleman.  You  cannot 
check  me  by  calling  my  manner  not  polite,  not  that  of 
your  class,  not  that  of  mine.  You  sent  me  away,  once, 
and  doubtless  you  thought  that  I  should  not  trouble 
you  again.  I  did  not  mean  to  do  so;  but  I  met  you,  and 
you  were  pleased  to  play  with  me,  and  by  your  play- 


278  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

ing  you  made  me  talk.  What  is  wrong  with  you?  Why 
do  you  pretend  to  be  a  fool?  Can  you  swear  to  me,  re- 
membering those  weeks  we  were  together,  that  you  are 
content,  that  you  have  forgotten  all  the  hopes  you  once 
professed,  that  you  are  happy  in  forgetting  them?" 

Massingdale  ceased  speaking,  and  the  sweat  stood 
on  the  man's  forehead,  and  his  breathing  was  laboured. 
Joan  moved  a  pace  away  from  him,  drawing  herself  to 
her  full  height,  her  colour  gone,  but  her  voice  clear  and 
cold. 

"I  think,"  said  she,  "that  to  an  ordinary  understand- 
ing you  might  seem  to  reopen  the  past.  Perhaps  I  do 
not  properly  gather  your  meaning,  but  it  appears  that 
you  invite  me  to  reconsider  a  decision  that  I  arrived 
at  when  I  last  saw  you.  I  have  no  need  to  reconsider  it. 
It  seems  that  you  are  in  no  mood  to  take  a  hint.  You 
say  that  you  have  imagined  many  peculiar  things  about 
my  manner  to  you  this  evening.  I  will  speak  very 
plainly  so  that  you  can  make  no  further  mistake." 
Here,  with  careful  deliberation,  she  took  stock  of  him 
as  he  stood  in  front  of  her;  and  when  she  continued  she 
laughed,  not  in  amusement.  "Before,"  she  told  him, 
"I  asked  you  to  leave  me,  because  I  preferred  not  to 
share  your  somewhat  divided  attention;  now,  I  ask 
you  to  avoid  annoying  me  with  either  your  ideas  or 
your  wishes  about  myself,  because,  although  sincerely 
fond  of  the  art  which  you  profess,  I  do  not  consider  that 
I  must  therefore  submit  to  the  impertinence  of  an  out- 
at-elbows  painter,  who  happens  to  proclaim  an  interest 
in  me. " 

I  imagine  that  she  had  intended  to  hurt  Massingdale, 
in  which  case  her  success  was  great,  for  he  collapsed  at 
her  words  as  a  man  who  has  no  more  fight  left  in  him. 
His  hands,  which  had  been  half  held  out  to  her,  dropped 


Moonlight  and  Sleeping  Hopes      279 

to  his  sides;  the  passion  and  the  fire  went  out  of  his 
eyes;  and  for  a  moment  he  bent  his  head  so  that  she 
could  not  clearly  see  his  face.  So  for  a  moment  they 
stood,  not  moving,  in  the  moonlight,  and  there  was  no 
sound  to  bring  disturbance  to  their  thoughts. 

Then  Massingdale  drew  himself  up,  motioning  to 
Joan  to  precede  him  down  the  path. 

"Explanations,  I  think,"  said  he,  his  voice  quiet  and 
without  expression,  "are  not  needed.  I  must  remember, 
Miss  Onnington,  my  position.  Will  you  come  back  to 
the  house?  I  hope  you  are  not  cold.  I  am  really  very 
thoughtless." 

She  passed  him  without  an  answer,  and  he  followed  her 
up  the  path  and  beyond  our  sight. 

When  the  sound  of  their  footsteps  had  ceased,  Tom 
and  I  came  out  of  the  summer-house,  and,  without  any 
word  spoken,  turned  down  a  path  to  the  right,  so  that 
we  might  appear  upon  the  terrace  from  another  direc- 
tion. As  we  made  the  circle  of  the  upper  part  of  the 
gardens,  I  expressed  something  of  my  feelings. 

"I  feel  a  most  infernal  cad,"  said  I,  staring  at  the 
path  in  front  of  me. 

Tom  grunted,  and  we  were  nearing  the  terrace  before 
he  spoke. 

"I  wish  to  God  I  could  break  somebody's  head,  or 
my  own,"  he  announced.  "I  'm  ashamed  to  face  either 
of  them  after  this." 

Which  was  very  much  my  own  view  of  the  case. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  drawing-room  we  found 
the  nieces  had  disappeared;  Joan  was  talking  to  Loissel, 
and  Massingdale  laughing  with  his  host  and  hostess. 

Tom  and  I  burst  into  apologies,  to  cover  our  em- 
barrassment rather  than  to  oblige  politeness,  alleging 
that  the  fineness  of  the  night  had  tempted  us  to  stroll. 


280  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"Don't  tell  them,  madame, "  implored  Massingdale, 
to  all  appearances  a  creature  divorced  from  care 
again,  "that  they  were  missed.  They  only  seek  to  be 
flattered." 

"We  missed  them  no  less  than  we  did  yourself,  mon 
ami, "  retorted  the  Vicomte,  smiling. 

"Then,"  replied  Massingdale,  "their  absence  was 
very  deeply  felt. " 

But  Loissel  had  interrupted  us  with  a  suggestion  of 
departure,  and  we  prepared  to  go.  De  Mdnillart  said 
that  he  would  walk  to  the  gates  with  us,  and  Joan,  who 
had  been  talking  eagerly  with  Loissel,  announced  a 
similar  intention;  Tom,  therefore,  suggested  that  he 
had  better  come  as  well;  and  we  all  left  the  house 
together.  We  strolled  to  the  entrance  to  the  park  in 
pairs,  Massingdale  walking  with  our  host,  and  I  with 
Tom;  arrived  there,  we  stood  a  few  moments  talking, 
enjoying  the  beauty  of  the  hour.  • 

"One  of  you  had  better  come  up  in  the  morning," 
suggested  the  Vicomte,  as  he  shook  hands,  "to  exchange 
opinions  on  the  situation.  I  expect  Dupont  about 
midday,  and  he  will  probably  have  something  to  say." 

"Sir, "  cried  Massingdale,  in  his  most  fantastic  manner, 
"you  shall  not  be  deserted.  A  body  of  self-sacrificing 
artists,  humble  men  of  lofty  ambitions,  shall  gather 
round  you,  to  sell  their  lives,  if  need  be,  most  dearly 
in  your  cause.  Sleep  comfortably  on  that  thought, 
Vicomte.  Hallo!  what's  that?" 

He  pointed  down  the  road,  and  there,  about  thirty 
yards  away,  a  man's  figure,  just  emerged  from  a  belt  of 
shadow,  lurched  and  swayed.  As  it  rolled  uncertainly 
towards  us,  I  recognised  Blinkson,  even  less  in  com- 
mand of  himself  than  was  his  habit  in  the  evening.  He 
halted  a  few  paces  in  front  of  us,  solemnly  removed 


Moonlight  and  Sleeping  Hopes      281 

his  hat,  bowed,  and  nearly  collapsed  upon  his  face  in 
the  endeavour. 

"Madame  et  messieurs,"  said  he,  enunciating  his 
words  with  care,  "je  vous  souhaite  le  bonsoir."  Then 
seeming  to  recognise  Massingdale,  he  hailed  him  by 
name,  and  broke  into  English.  "I  'm  keeping  watch," 
he  announced.  "Guarding  'gainst  secret  attacks  of 
canaille.  Don't  see  the  Vicomte.  'Evening,  m'sieur  le 
Vicomte,  if  you  're  here.  I  'm  guarding  house  and  home, 
m'sieur  le  Vicomte.  No  trouble,  'assure  you. " 

De  Menillart  stared  in  astonishment;  Joan  showed 
disgust;  we  were  all,  I  think,  annoyed;  but  Massing- 
dale did  not  let  the  scene  lengthen.  He  had  the  old 
drunkard  by  the  arm,  almost  before  the  man  had  finished 
speaking;  and  his  laughing  voice,  indulgent  and  cheer- 
ful, followed  the  other's  without  a  pause. 

"Good  man,"  said  he.  "Excellent  thing  to  do. 
Keeping  an  eye  open,  eh?  But,  Blinkson,  we  can't  do 
any  more  good  here.  I  think  we  might  have  a  look 
at  the  La  Verzee  road,  however.  Care  to  come  along?" 

"I  won't  be  hurried,"  declared  Blinkson,  preparing  to 
resist.  ' '  No  hurry. ' ' 

"  None  at  all, "  agreed  Massingdale,  letting  go  his  arm. 
"Crawl,  if  you  like.  Only  I  think  we  ought  to  be  moving 
soon. " 

So,  after  some  murmured  words  which  did  not  come 
to  us,  the  pair  staggered  off  together,  Massingdale 
guiding  the  drunk  man's  erratic  steps. 

"Is  that,"  asked  Joan,  as  Loissel  and  I  hurried  our 
good-nights,  "one  of  Mr.  Massingdale's  friends?" 

"It  is,  "said  I. 

But  she  did  not  push  the  topic,  and  we  left  her  a  very 
picture  of  disdain. 


CHAPTER   XV 

OF  DEATH  AND  OF  SUSPENSE 

THE  following  morning  we  hung  about  the  house  or 
the  hamlet,  doing  nothing.  Blinkson,  never  at  his 
best  in  the  early  hours,  was  silent,  and  looked  even  more 
sickly  than  his  wont.  After  breakfast  he  found  Massing- 
dale  and  myself  together  in  the  garden,  and  he  made  us  an 
apology  for  his  exhibition  of  the  previous  evening.  The 
sodden  old  fellow  was  very  penitent,  and,  I  believe,  more 
distressed  than  he  cared  to  show;  it  is  a  circumstance 
which  I  take  no  pleasure  in  recalling,  that  I  must  have 
appeared  to  him  both  surly  and  inclined  to  parade  the 
superiority  of  virtue. 

"  I  am  not, "  said  he,  coming  up  to  us  where  we  smoked 
our  pipes  upon  a  bench  in  the  sunshine,  "in  the  habit 
of  exhibiting  my  accomplishments  before  ladies.  When 
I  do  so,  as  I  am  afraid  I  did  last  night,  it  forces  me  to 
contrast  myself  with  other  people.  I  don't  like  doing 
that.  Was  I  very  bad?  " 

"You  were,"  said  I,  and  was  sorry  on  the  instant 
that  I  had  said  so.  For  Blinkson  winced  as  if  he  had 
been  struck,  and  his  shaking  hands  fumbled  with  his 
watch-chain,  and  his  glass  dropped  from  his  eye.  He 
turned  half  away  from  us,  and  his  whole  attitude  was 
that  of  a  man  aware  of  an  irremediable  shame. 

"I  wonder,"  he  inquired  presently,  and  in  his  voice, 
282 


Of  Death  and  of  Suspense          283 

from  which  much  of  the  huskiness  and  all  of  his  usual 
wheezy  laughter  had  gone,  there  seemed  to  sound  the 
echo  of  former  days,  of  the  man  of  parts  and  position 
whom  drink  had  not  debased.  "I  wonder  how  you 
men  manage  to  put  up  with  me.  If  the  tables  were 
turned  I  don't  think  I  could  stand  it. " 

Massingdale  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  tapped 
out  the  ashes  on  his  boot,  watching  the  operation  with 
care. 

"If,"  he  answered  quietly,  "either  I,  or  Dick  here, 
or  any  of  the  others  had  never  done  anything  foolish 
or  wrong  before  a  woman,  we  might  be  in  a  position  to 
call  you  names ;  even  so  I  hope  we  should  n't.  As  things 
are,  let  's  drop  the  subject.  I,  personally,  manage 
to  support  your  presence  without  any  wound  to  my 
finer  senses;  what  is  more,  I  should  be  damned  sorry 
to  lose  your  friendship. " 

Blinkson  turned  his  back  upon  us  hurriedly,  and 
walked  away  down  the  path,  his  loose,  shambling  figure 
seeming  shrunken  and  old.  We  joined  him  shortly 
afterwards  and  began  talking  of  the  strike;  during 
which  discussion  I  can  only  hope  that  I  showed  a  more 
kindly  generosity. 

All  that  morning  and  during  much  of  the  afternoon 
we  hung  about  the  place  talking  of  nothing  but  the 
temper  of  the  peasants,  and  the  chances  of  there  being 
a  disturbance.  The  thing  filled  our  attention ;  we  thought 
of  nothing  outside  of  our  quiet  valleys;  yet  we  had  no 
further  knowledge  of  what  the  malcontents  planned, 
and  for  some  reason  or  other  we  made  no  attempt  to 
remedy  our  ignorance.  Hendick  and  Vanne  took  the 
gravest  view  of  the  affair;  their  excursion  to  Mailly 
had  impressed  them  with  its  seriousness,  and  the  former 
was  loud  in  his  denunciation  of  an  agitation  which  he 


284  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

styled  unjustifiable.  About  midday  Loissel  went  up  to 
the  chateau  for  news  and  returned  without  any.  Dupont, 
it  seemed,  had  not  arrived,  but  had  sent  a  messenger 
stating  that  he  was  delayed  and  hinting  at  more  alarming 
news  to  follow.  We  sat  long  over  our  meal  discussing 
the  nature  of  these  alarms,  and  were  in  consequence 
duly  brought  to  book  by  Jeanne. 

"You  are  all  the  same,"  announced  that  worthy 
woman,  breaking  in  on  us  as  we  smoked  around  the 
table.  "There  is  no  difference  in  you  men.  Bon  Dieu, 
they  say  that  women  talk!  You  not  only  neglect  your 
own  work — about  which  I  do  not  care — but  you  prevent 
me  from  doing  mine — another  business  altogether." 

And  she  drove  us  out  of  doors  without  ceremony. 

We  found,  during  the  afternoon,  that  the  men  of  the 
hamlet  were  all  away,  although  their  womenfolk  assured 
us  that  they  were  not  working  in  the  fields.  Even  to 
our  small  settlement,  so  far  as  we  could  gather,  the 
unrest  had  spread. 

The  summer  of  that  year  was  the  warmest  and  the 
driest  in  my  recollection,  and  it  seemed  that  there  was 
no  chance  of  the  fine  weather  breaking,  so  that  the 
September  evenings  were  as  hot  as  those  of  an  ordinary 
July.  We  sat  late  that  afternoon  about  the  door,  as  was 
our  custom,  and  the  dusk  fell  about  us  soft  and  quiet, 
pointing  a  fine  contrast  to  our  most  warlike  talk.  I 
made  the  comparison  aloud  to  the  others,  and  we  were 
speaking  of  it  when  Dupont  came  riding  from  the 
chiteau. 

He  was  a  big,  fleshy  man,  with  a  long  moustache,  and 
a  loud  voice;  in  talk  he  was  somewhat  domineering, 
and  his  manner  was  rough;  yet  he  was  spoken  of  as 
an  excellent  man  of  business,  and  not  unjust,  though 
stern.  Beneath  his  hat  he  wore  a  bandage  round  his 


Of  Death  and  of  Suspense         285 

head,  dressing  the  wound  he  had  received  the  day 
before. 

He  bade  us  good-evening,  falling  at  once  into  talk 
about  the  strike.  It  was  already  so  dark  that  I  could 
scarcely  see  his  face,  but  I  made  it  out  fatigued  and 
anxious,  yet  showing  no  sign  of  fear. 

"Things  go  badly,  my  friends,"  said  he,  leaning  from 
his  horse.  "There  is  bad  trouble  about.  Monsieur  le 
Vicomte  wants  as  many  of  you  as  care  to  go  at  the 
chateau.  These  fools  may  attack  it.  Yes,  I  speak  the 
truth.  At  Mailly,  at  Aze",  in  all  the  villages  through 
which  I  passed,  they  were  drunk  as  owls.  The  talk  was 
bad,  moreover,  bad,  my  friends.  I  give  you  my  word 
for  it,  I  have  had  a  time.  Stones  thrown  at  me;  a  gun 
fired  off,  to  frighten  my  old  horse,  I  suppose.  It  would 
take  more  than  that  to  frighten  him.  Well,  I  must  go 
on.  Don't  forget  to  go  up  to  the  chateau.  I  go  to  give 
word  to  the  military — they  may  be  wanted.  Au  revoir, 
messieurs," 

He  raised  his  hand  to  his  hat,  set  his  horse  moving, 
and  turned  down  in  the  direction  of  the  hill  track  to 
Cluny.  Not  twenty  seconds  after  he  left  us,  when  he 
was  still  no  more  than  a  few  feet  away,  the  report  of  a 
gun  set  us  all  jumping ;  and  the  big  man,  without  a  word  or 
cry,  fell  from  his  horse.  The  animal,  true  to  his  master's 
boast,  did  not  bolt,  but  after  rearing  for  a  moment, 
stood  watching,  it  seemed  to  me,  the  fallen  figure. 

We  all  ran  to  where  Dupont  lay,  only  concerned  with 
the  wounded  man  and  forgetting  his  assailant.  We 
loosened  his  collar,  lifted  him  with  what  tenderness  we 
could,  and  carried  him  to  the  house.  Our  care,  how- 
ever, was  not  needed;  he  was  dead  before  we  got  him 
into  shelter;  indeed,  I  cannot  swear  that  he  still  lived 
when  we  ran  up  to  him. 


286  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

Of  the  ensuing  confusion  I  carry  no  detailed  record 
in  my  mind.  This  sudden  and  undreamed  appearance 
of  so  great  a  thing  as  death  found  us  unprepared,  too 
much  excited  when  we  faced  it,  without  any  knowledge 
of  what  we  should  do.  Before,  we  had  thought  of  the 
whole  business  as  little  more  than  an  experience  which 
promised  much  interest,  possibly  some  annoyance,  but 
which  did  not  touch  on  tragedy;  now,  with  a  dead  man, 
who  had  been  strong  and  well  and  active  only  a  few 
minutes  back,  lying  still  amongst  us,  no  light  view  was 
possible,  we  were  thrown,  with  sudden  violence,  from  all 
the  paths  we  knew,  and  set  to  wander  in  an  unknown 
country  more  bleak  and  stern  than  we  had  seen  before. 
If  we  hesitated  about  the  way  that  we  should  go,  if  we 
wasted  time,  it  was  not,  I  think,  through  cowardice, 
although  a  great  distaste  for  the  whole  business  had 
come  to  us,  it  was  because,  being  strangers  to  any  work 
of  this  kind,  we  struggled  with  a  confusion  of  passions 
the  call  of  which  we  feared  to  act  upon.  The  quiet  night 
was  now  no  longer  quiet  for  us.  Death  and  violence 
filled  our  minds  with  unaccustomed  thoughts.  Yet  I  hold 
it  no  shame  to  us  that  we  came  slowly  to  the  new  posi- 
tion, that,  being  ordinary  men  reared  in  secure  protec- 
tion from  the  sights  and  sounds  of  war,  we  did  not  at 
first  realise  that  the  old  manner  of  our  life  was,  for  the 
moment,  superseded,  giving  place  to  simpler,  quicker 
action. 

We  had  placed  poor  Dupont's  body  on  the  floor  of 
the  hall;  some  one,  I  think  it  was  Vanne,  had  set  a 
rolled-up  coat  beneath  the  head;  Jeanne  had  appeared 
with  candles,  by  whose  dim  light  the  scene  was  lit. 
Massingdale  was  on  his  knees  beside  the  dead  man, 
listening  for  some  faint  stirring  of  the  heart;  and  upon 
the  shirt,  a  garment  of  striking  pattern  as  I  remember 


Of  Death  and  of  Suspense         287 

it,  for  Dupont  had  loved  show  in  his  dress,  there  grew 
a  larger  stain.  We  waited  for  Massingdale  to  finish 
his  examination;  it  seemed,  somehow,  the  thing  that 
should  be  done,  but  I  do  not  think  we  doubted  the 
result  of  it.  After  his  passage,  Death  leaves  a  stamp 
upon  the  human  face  which  may  not  easily  be  overlooked. 

In  a  very  short  time  Massingdale  looked  up  at  us, 
and  his  expression,  I  take  it,  was  much  the  reflection 
of  our  own:  something  dazed,  carrying  the  mark  of 
awe,  yet  with  some  wilder  feeling  slowly  being  born. 

"I  don't  think  there  is  any  doubt,"  said  he,  rising 
to  his  feet.  "Dupont  is  dead.  We  can't  do  anything. 
He  was  shot  through  the  heart,  I  believe.  Will  some 
one  make  certain?" 

I  took  Massingdale's  place  beside  the  body,  and  after 
I  had  searched  for  any  sign  of  life,  Blinkson  followed 
me  in  the  same  business.  It  was  quite  apparent  that  we 
looked  for  something  we  should  never  find,  but  at 
the  moment  a  horror  held  us  lest  the  man  should  still 
be  living,  should  still  be  on  the  nearer  side,  and  should 
find  us  idle,  giving  him  no  helping  hand. 

When  we  had  made  certain  that  a  life  had  ended  here 
beside  us,  we  spoke  of  the  murder  quietly,  in  the  hushed 
tones  that  seemed  the  dead  man's  due.  That  the  mur- 
derer had  got  away  seemed  certain;  that  we  should  do 
something  to  discover  him  was  the  thing  of  which  we 
talked.  While  we  discussed  the  means  of  finding  the 
man  and  bringing  him  to  his  punishment,  Jeanne  left 
us,  to  return  in  a  short  while,  with  the  request  that  we 
should  help  her. 

"Messieurs,"  said  she,  her  rough  voice  quieter  than 
its  wont,  her  simple  peasant's  face  calm  and  serious, 
"it  is  not  well  that  Monsieur  Dupont  should  lie  here 
on  the  floor.  Will  you  carry  him  to  a  bed?  It  is  ready. 


288  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

I  will  see  that  he  lies  as  a  man  should  when  he  is  dead. " 

We  did  as  she  asked,  glad  that  the  body  should  be 
away  from  our  sight;  and  I  think  that  through  this 
intimate  association  with  dead  humanity,  for  on  account 
of  the  narrowness  of  the  stairs  and  the  great  bulk  of 
the  thing  we  carried  our  task  was  not  easy,  we  came 
to  a  clearer  seeing  in  the  matters  that  were  yet  to  do. 
We  were  forced,  in  my  case  with  strong  physical  repul- 
sion, into  handling,  sometimes  roughly,  that  which  had 
hitherto  been  set  apart  from  our  experiences;  we  had 
the  horror  of  this  murder  somewhat  differently  exposed; 
and  in  losing  the  feeling  of  strangeness  that  had  before 
enveloped  us,  we  awoke  more  active  passions,  of  anger 
and  of  vengeance. 

When  we  were  again  in  the  hall,  leaving  Jeanne  to 
perform  the  offices  in  which  she  took  a  solemn  satisfac- 
tion, we  talked  with  a  greater  freedom,  although,  for 
some  time  at  least,  to  no  practical  effect. 

"How  far  is  this  business  going?"  asked  Hendick, 
leaning  against  a  table,  and  making  an  obvious  effort 
to  subdue  his  usual  tone  of  argument;  "that  is  what  we 
have  to  decide  before  we  do  anything  more.  The  man 
who  killed  Dupont  was  not  drunk;  on  the  other  hand,  he 
may  have  acted  from  personal  spite — we  must  not  forget 
that." 

"What  caused  him  to  do  it  does  not  much  matter," 
I  argued;  "the  effect  on  the  other  men  will  be  the  same. 
Most  of  them  are  probably  drunk  by  now;  when  this 
gets  known  they  will  know  themselves  in  for  serious 
trouble,  and  will  probably  get  more  violent  than  before. 
We  ought  to  go  up  to  the  chateau. " 

"Dupont  was  shot  with  a  rifle,"  said  Loissel.  "One 
could  hear  that.  The  thing  must  have  been  carefully 
planned. " 


Of  Death  and  of  Suspense          289 

Vanne,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  for  he  had  not  put  on  his 
coat  again,  interposed  his  word;  his  usual  high  colour 
was  gone,  and  he  wheezed  and  panted  in  his  emotion. 

"We  must  do  something,"  he  cried.  "We  cannot  let 
him  lie  up  there,  while  we  stand  here  and  talk.  We 
should  communicate  with  the  military.  We  must  go 
and  help  the  Vicomte. " 

"The  military!"  asked  Blinkson.  "What  can  they 
do?  Besides,  it  would  take  too  long.  There  will  be 
a  drunken  crowd  of  fools  in  front  of  the  chateau  before 
the  authorities  know  of  this.  Go  up  to  the  house,  by  all 
means;  they  have  a  car  there;  they  can  move  quicker 
than  we  can." 

"There  are  women  at  the  chateau,"  interrupted 
Marellac  in  his  soft  voice,  "and  these  men  will  be  drunk 
— mad  with  drink." 

"Come  on,"  said  I,  and  made  towards  the  open  door. 

But  Massingdale,  who  had  taken  no  part  in  the  dis- 
cussion, who  had,  instead,  paced  the  hall  in  silence, 
stood  in  my  way.  The  man  was  transformed ;  he  seemed 
on  fire  with  some  excitement;  the  dreams  were  chased 
from  his  eyes  by  a  blazing  anger.  Yet,  when  he  spoke, 
his  voice  was  calm  and  quiet,  and  after  the  first  few  words 
he  dealt  with  practical  things. 

"Stop,"  said  he.  "Wait.  We  are  not  playing  now. 
We  have  something  to  do.  We  must  kill  the  man  who 
killed  Dupont.  My  God,"  he  went  on,  "we  will  show 
them  that  we  can  fight;  we  will  show  them  that  they 
cannot  shoot  men  in  the  dark,  and  expect  the  law  only 
to  deal  with  them.  I  am  glad  this  has  come.  Yes,  glad. 
We  will  do  things  to-night.  We  are  done,  for  the  time, 
with  quietness,  with  talk.  We  begin  to  act."  He 
paused,  but  only  for  the  fraction  of  a  second,  and  then 
spoke  again  more  quickly,  as  if  there  were  no  question 
19 


290  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

but  that  we  should  agree  with  him.  "Whether  they 
know  of  Dupont's  death  or  not,"  he  argued,  "they 
will  visit  the  chateau  to-night.  We  '11  meet  them.  You, 
Dick,  and  Loissel,  go  up  to  the  house;  explain  things 
to  De  Me"nillart,  and  have  the  car  got  ready.  Telephone 
through  to  Cluny.  Hendick,  you  must  stop  here  with 
Marellac.  They  might  come  by  one  of  the  paths  over 
the  hills  up  this  way.  Send  up  to  the  chateau  if  you 
hear  them  coming.  Bring  Jeanne  up,  and  leave  the 
place,  if  they  are  very  wild.  Auguste,  you  must  take 
the  by-road  to  Bassy.  It 's  clear  to-night,  if  you  go 
just  beyond  the  little  pinewood  you  can  see  a  mile 
ahead  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  Directly  you  see  anything 
run  to  the  chateau.  Blinkson,  there  is  a  place  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  down  the  road  to  La  Verzee,  just  clear 
of  the  park  wall,  where  you  can  get  a  good  sight  ahead. 
I  '11  take  the  bridle  road  that  leads  through  the  Foret 
de  Goulene  to  Blanot.  If  Ritaud  is  leading  them,  they 
may  come  by  that.  We  must  find  how  they  are  coming, 
so  that  we  can  get  the  women  away  in  the  car  without 
meeting  them.  We  've  a  shotgun  and  two  revolvers. 
Hendick  ought  to  have  the  gun;  I  don't  want  anything. 
We  had  better  be  moving. " 

We  did  not  dispute  his  arrangement;  it  was  as  good 
as  any  that  we  should  have  settled  after  much  useless 
talk.  Instead,  Hendick  went  to  look  for  the  weapons, 
and  Marellac  disturbed  Jeanne  in  her  last  services  to 
the  dead  man,  to  tell  her  what  we  did.  As  we  prepared 
to  go,  Blinkson  broke  into  a  laugh,  and  although  it 
sounded  oddly  in  that  house  which  had  suddenly  become 
the  shelter  of  so  grim  a  burden,  I  think  that  it  marked 
the  change  in  our  attitude  now  that  action  was  to  hand. 

"This  is  an  extraordinary  business,"  said  he.  "I  feel 
a  better  man  for  it." 


Of  Death  and  of  Suspense         291 

He  had  certainly  arrived  at  a  more  dignified  appear- 
ance than  was  common  with  him,  and  I  was  surprised 
at  the  purpose  in  his  face;  yet  I  think  that  I  realised 
something  of  his  meaning,  and  that,  to  some  extent,  I 
felt  as  he  did. 

Then  Jeanne  appeared  with  food,  thick  sandwiches 
of  bread  and  meat,  and  made  Blinkson  and  Vanne  and 
Massingdale  take  them,  urging  that  no  man  was  ever 
the  better  for  going  hungry  to  his  work.  And  Loissel, 
his  kindly  old  face  serious  and  sad,  took  up  the  last 
word,  repeating  it  as  we  left  the  house. 

"Our  work!"  said  he;  "I  ask  myself  what  that  may 
be." 

"There  is  an  honest  man  now  dead,"  cried  Massing- 
dale, his  voice  suddenly  tremulous  with  passion.  "  Killed, 
shot  without  a  chance  of  fight,  because  he  did  his  master's 
business  faithfully.  If  my  work  may  be  to  end  the  life 
of  the  man  who  killed  him,  I  ask  nothing  better." 

And  it  did  not  occur  to  me  that  here  was  a  curious 
sentiment  in  a  man  who  had  been  all  his  life  very  peace- 
ful; or  that,  in  a  country  highly  civilised  and  duly 
ruled  by  law,  we  started  upon  work  that,  a  few  days 
before,  had  seemed  impossible,  going  to  it  with  little 
wonder  and  small  attention  to  its  unusual  side.  A 
dead  man  lay  behind  us,  and  in  the  manner  of  his 
dying  he  had  strangely  altered  all  our  thoughts. 

Our  ways  did  not  lie  long  together,  for  we  had  scarcely 
begun  the  ascent  of  the  road  to  the  chateau,  and  were 
not  more  than  a  few  hundred  yards  from  our  house, 
when  Blinkson  and  Vanne  took  a  turning  to  the  right; 
Massingdale  kept  with  us  for  another  hundred  yards, 
and  then,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  he  followed  a  path 
upon  the  other  side  of  the  way,  disappearing  quickly 
into  dense  shadow  cast  by  the  high  banks.  Loissel  and 


292  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

I  kept  on  our  way  in  silence  until  we  got  to  the  lodge 
gates;  there  we  were  challenged  by  a  groom  who  stood 
upon  the  other  side  with  the  barrier  locked  between  us, 
who  carried  a  gun,  who  had  with  him  a  large  dog  of 
uncertain  breed. 

The  man  admitted  us  without  delay,  informed  us  that 
we  should  find  his  master  at  the  house,  and  was,  very 
clearly,  anxious  for  any  news.  We  did  not,  however, 
stop  to  satisfy  his  curiosity,  but,  with  the  simple  state- 
ment that  things  went  badly,  hurried  on  to  the  lighted 
building  at  the  end  of  the  avenue.  There  we  en- 
countered another  servant,  also  armed,  doing  sentry- 
go  in  front  of  the  house,  and  we  saw  the  Vicomte's  car 
standing  in  front  of  the  main  door.  On  this  occasion 
we  did  not  have  to  wait  for  the  appearance  of  the  master 
of  the  house,  but  were  shown  immediately  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  we  found  De  Me*nillart,  and  with  him 
Tom  and  Joan. 

The  Vicomte  was  pacing  the  room  as  we  entered, 
while  his  guests  sat  near  the  open  windows;  all  three 
of  them  were  plainly  disturbed,  and  the  host  made  no 
attempt  of  any  kind  to  hide  his  anxiety. 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  turning  as  we  entered,  "you  have 
come,  my  friends.  I  thank  you.  And  the  others? 
They  come  presently,  perhaps?  You  have  heard 
Dupont's  news?  You  have  seen  him?  He  thinks  that 
these  men  will  attack  the  house  to-night.  I" — here  he 
seemed  to  pause — "I  am  anxious  that  my  wife  and 
child,  my  guests  also,  should  escape  any  danger.  The 
car  leaves  in  a  few  minutes.  Dupont  should  by  now 
be  near  Cluny.  He  went  to  warn  the  military;  and 
they  should  send  us  help  at  once. " 

Loissel's  voice  was  very  quiet,  as  he  interrupted  the 
other's  talk. 


Of  Death  and  of  Suspense          293 

"No,  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,"  said  he;  "Dupont  did 
not  go  to  warn  the  military. " 

"Eh?"  questioned  De  Me'nillart  sharply.  "Why 
not?" 

"Because  he  was  shot  as  he  left  our  house, "  stated 
Loissel,  his  tone  hardening  to  anger.  "He  died  as  he 
fell  from  his  horse. " 

The  Vicomte  recoiled  a  step  like  a  man  who  takes  a 
heavy  blow;  he  stared  at  us  in  horror.  Joan  gave  a 
low  cry,  and  her  colour  fled,  leaving  her  white,  with 
frightened  eyes  upon  us.  Tom  rose  from  his  chair, 
crossing  to  where  his  sister  sat,  and  putting  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder;  he  showed  little  sign  of  being  affected 
by  the  news,  but  I  noticed  that  his  mouth  had  suddenly 
hardened. 

"Dead!"  murmured  De  Me'nillart,  as  if  he  did  not 
fully  realise  our  meaning.  "Dupont  dead!"  And 
then,  a  moment  later:  "But  this  is  awful.  This  is 
war." 

"Where  are  the  others?"  Joan  asked,  and  her  eyes 
were  on  mine  in  deep  anxiety  as  she  put  the  question. 

"They  are  safe,"  I  answered,  and  heard  her  sigh. 
"  No  attempt  was  made  to  harm  any  one  but  Dupont. 
They  are  watching  all  the  roads  to  the  chateau. " 

But  De  Me'nillart  seemed  to  wish  for  no  other  news; 
he  straightened  himself  and  it  was  clear  that  he  had 
come  to  some  decision. 

"We  must  not  waste  time,"  he  cried;  "the  car  must 
start  at  once.  It  is  built  to  hold  two,  with  an  extra 
seat  behind.  It  cannot  possibly  hold  more  than  four. 
Miss  Onnington  has  assured  me  that  she  will  not  go 
on  the  first  journey,  therefore  my  wife  and  child,  with 
my  two  nieces  and  a  man  to  drive  them,  must  leave  at 
once.  If  necessary,  I  will  have  a  carriage  or  horse  got 


294  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

ready  at  once  for  Miss  Onnington  and  for  Monsieur  le 
Lieutenant." 

"What  you  propose  is  quite  impossible,  Monsieur  le 
Vicomte, "  old  Loissel  announced  with  slow  deliberation. 
De  Menillart  turned  on  him  like  a  man  at  bay. 

"Impossible  to  send  my  wife  and  child  into  safety!" 
he  demanded.  "In  God's  name,  why?" 

The  old  painter  ran  his  hand  through  his  beard,  as 
if  the  occasion  called  for  no  excitement;  standing 
squarely  in  front  of  the  Vicomte,  he  looked  down, 
smiling,  on  the  smaller  man. 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  seek  the 
safety  of  your  wife  and  child,  my  friend,"  he  answered, 
in  his  slow  manner.  "There  is,  however,  good  reason 
why  you  should  not  send  them  off,  unprotected,  when 
you  do  not  know  by  what  road  these  gentlemen  are 
coming  to  visit  you.  The  car  must  not  meet  these 
creatures  on  their  way. " 

Thereupon,  we  explained  the  situation  as  we  under- 
stood it,  and  pointed  out  that  as  all  the  roads  were 
watched  we  ought  to  have  good  warning  of  the  approach 
of  the  rioters,  which  would  enable  us  to  send  the  women 
off  in  the  car  along  some  way  where  they  would  not  be 
stopped. 

"  You  might  ring  them  up  at  Cluny, "  I  suggested  to  the 
Vicomte;  "you  are  on  the  telephone  here,  are  n't  you?" 

Tom  laughed;  he  had  taken  an  eager  part  in  the 
discussion. 

"We  have  tried  already,"  he  interposed.  "They  Ve 
dished  us  there,  Dick.  Cut  the  wires  or  something. 
We  can't  get  an  answer. " 

"The  devil!"  said  I.  The  business  seemed  to  grow 
more  serious  as  we  saw  more  of  it;  I  heartily  wished 
that  the  women  were  safely  away. 


Of  Death  and  of  Suspense          295 

"There  is  nothing  to  do  but  wait,"  announced  De 
Me*nillart,  starting  to  walk  the  room  again.  "The  car 
is  ready ;  when  we  hear  news  it  can  go.  My  wife  is  with 
the  boy;  I  won't  worry  her  yet.  I  blame  myself,  Miss 
Onnington,  for  having  allowed  you  to  come  here.  I 
feared  trouble,  and  should  have  put  you  off. " 

"Then  you  are  very  foolish,"  answered  Joan,  making 
a  show  of  taking  the  matter  lightly.  "Tom  and  Mr. 
Crutchley  will  look  after  me.  Don't  worry  about 
bringing  me  here. " 

"Glad  you  let  us  come,  sir,"  said  Tom  cheerfully. 
"Besides,  we  shan't  come  to  any  harm.  You  have  four 
men  watching  the  park  walls;  they  Ve  got  guns.  It 
is  my  opinion  that  any  show  of  fight  will  send  these 
fellows  off  with  their  tails  between  their  legs.  If  you 
don't  mind  my  interfering,  I  should  sugggest  that  you 
send  one  of  the  house  servants  on  a  horse  to  Cluny. 
Just  as  well  to  let  the  authorities  hear  from  you." 

"Certainly,"  agreed  De  Menillart;  "I'll  see  to  it." 
And  he  rang  the  bell,  giving  the  necessary  order  to  the 
old  man-servant  who  appeared. 

Tom  was  clearly  determined  that  we  should  fall  into 
no  gloomy  mood,  for  he  kept  the  conversation  going 
without  pause,  laughing  at  the  whole  business,  telling 
Joan  that  she  would  be  able  to  talk  of  it  afterwards 
until  all  her  friends  were  sickened  of  the  subject,  and 
praising  the  Vicomte  for  the  originality  of  his  entertain- 
ing. Although  our  talk  lacked  wit,  and  was  often  kept 
alive  with  difficulty,  it  was  better  than  silence,  and 
helped  to  pass  the  time.  We  did  not  wander  from  the 
chances  of  the  night,  such  an  excursion  would  have 
been  impossible  under  the  circumstances,  but  we  assured 
each  other  that  the  affair  would  turn  out  as  the  usual 
strike  demonstration,  and  that  we  should  get  to  bed 


296  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

quietly  rather  later  than  usual;  we  did  not  mention 
the  dead  man  lying  in  the  hamlet.  In  spite  of  our 
careful  conversation  there  would  occur  pauses  in  which 
we  all  seemed  to  listen;  and  had  the  smallest  noise 
come  to  us  from  outside,  I  think  that  any  one  of  us 
would  have  heard  it,  even  though  he  were  speaking 
at  the  time. 

The  night  was  fine,  with  a  light  wind  blowing  from 
the  north-west,  the  moonlight  brilliant  on  the  gardens, 
and  the  countryside  as  still  as  on  all  the  other  nights 
that  I  had  lived  in  it. 

Tom  strolled  to  the  windows,  and  looked  out. 

"I  rather  think,"  said  he,  "that  we've  struck  the 
best  billet.  I  should  n't  fancy  hanging  about  a  dark 
wood  alone.  Beastly  creepy  performance.  Massingdale 
is  in  the  woods,  is  n't  he,  Dick?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  "He  chose  the  job.  I  'm  glad 
it  did  n't  fall  to  me. " 

Joan  got  up  and  snuffed  a  smoking  candle;  she  seemed 
restless,  but  her  colour  was  high  again,  and  she  showed 
no  sign  of  fright.  It  struck  me  that  she  tried  to  avoid 
asking  a  question,  yet  could  not  keep  herself  from  it. 

"But  there  is  no  danger?"  she  inquired.  "Mr. 
Massingdale  and  his  friends  don't  run  any  risk?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Tom  shortly.  "Anyhow, 
it 's  a  lonely  game.  Plenty  of  time  to  fancy  things. 
Hallo!" 

We  were  still  and  listening  at  his  words,  straining  to 
catch  the  smallest  sound.  Faintly,  far  away,  yet  clear 
beyond  mistake,  came  the  sound  of  many  voices,  a 
confused  noise,  tiny  and  distant,  as  of  shouting  and 
singing.  It  seemed  to  come  from  straight  ahead,  from 
the  direction  of  Bassy,  and  it  was  an  uncomfortable 
thing  to  hear  on  the  still  summer  night. 


Of  Death  and  of  Suspense          297 

Tom  stood  very  straight,  his  head  slightly  inclined 
towards  the  open  air,  and  as  his  back  was  turned  to 
us  we  could  not  see  his  face.  The  room,  I  remember, 
was  abominably  silent,  except  for  that  far-off  shouting, 
which  to  my  imagination  appeared  to  grow  louder  with 
an  impossible  rapidity;  there  seemed  no  living  thing 
about  us.  At  the  end  of  a  few  seconds  Tom  turned 
round  and  left  his  place  by  the  window;  he  smiled  at 
us,  apparently  well  content,  and  I  will  swear  that  he 
enjoyed  himself. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "things  are  beginning  to  move. 
We  '11  have  a  go  at  showing  these  musicians  something. 
Vicomte,  may  I  take  command  now,  as  you  suggested?" 

De  Menillart  nodded;  his  whole  attention  seemed 
taken  up  with  listening  to  the  noise  outside. 

"Then,"  continued  Tom,  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  and  speaking  with  a  certain  emphasis,  "you 
won't  mind  if  I  remind  you  that  we  are  not  playing. 
What  I  tell  you  to  do  must  be  done. " 

He  waited  at  that,  but  no  one  spoke. 

"  Good,"  he  went  on.  "  That' s  understood.  Vicomte, 
will  you  go  and  bring  your  wife,  your  son,  and  your 
nieces  into  the  hall?  See  that  they  are  quite  ready  to 
start  in  the  motor. " 

Our  host  got  up  without  a  word,  and  left  the  room; 
it  had  been  arranged  between  Tom  and  him  that  when 
the  necessity  came  the  guest,  having  some  acquaintance 
with  commanding,  should  take  control  of  the  situation. 

"Monsieur  Loissel,"  ordered  Tom,  when  De  Menillart 
was  gone,  "please  go  to  the  gun  room — you  '11  find  the 
butler  in  the  hall  to  take  you  there — and  see  that  all 
the  firearms  that  may  be  of  any  use  are  brought  in 
here.  By  the  way,  did  you  people  miss  your  dinner?" 

Loissel  told  him  "yes." 


298  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"Then,"  suggested  Tom,  "you  had  better  tell  one 
of  the  servants  to  bring  some  food  in  here  at  once. 
Make  them  bring  enough.  We  've  plenty  of  time  to 
eat  before  the  fun  begins,  and  our  dinner  was  a  bit 
short,  so  that  we  '11  join  you." 

I  had  not  seen  Tom  in  this  capacity  before,  and  the 
easy  way  the  manner  sat  on  him  made  me  thankful 
that  he  was  with  us.  He  had  the  habit  of  command 
that  assumes  a  ready  obedience,  and  we  dropped  at 
once  into  carrying  out  his  orders,  where  we  had  probably 
stopped  to  think  about  their  wisdom  had  they  come 
from  one  of  ourselves. 

"We  '11  shut  these  windows,"  he  told  me,  as  Loissel 
departed  on  his  errand.  "No  need  to  have  the  whole 
place  open.  Leave  the  middle  one,  and  fasten  the 
shutters  outside.  Keep  inside,  Joan,  don't  show  your- 
self. Our  friends  are  getting  nearer,  and  there  may 
be  other  lots  about  besides  this  one. " 

As  we  were  fastening  the  shutters  of  the  second 
window,  Tom  spoke  to  me  in  a  whisper. 

"We  appear  to  be  in  a  deuce  of  a  hole,  old  man," 
said  he.  "These  blighters  don't  seem  to  stick  at  murder. 
Keep  your  eye  on  Joan  when  I  'm  doing  something  else; 
she  is  so  confoundedly  excitable. " 

I  was  assuring  him  that  I  would  do  so,  when  there 
came  a  shout  from  the  hillside  in  front  of  us,  some- 
where, I  judged,  about  the  limit  of  the  park.  Clearly 
on  the  quiet  air  there  came  the  call  to  halt  from  one 
of  our  own  men,  and  then  another  voice  calling,  whose 
words  I  did  not  catch. 

"What 's  this?"  I  heard  Tom  murmur.  "They  're 
not  near  yet. " 

And  then  Joan  appeared  from  the  room  behind, 
and  stood  between  us.  Tom  turned  on  her  angrily. 


Of  Death  and  of  Suspense         299 

"Go  back!"  he  cried.  "I  told  you  to  keep  out  of 
sight." 

"Let  me  stop,  Tom,"  she  urged;  and  in  the  clear 
moonlight,  which  streamed  upon  this  side  of  the  house, 
I  could  see  her  large  eyes  scared  and  bright,  yet  she 
did  not  tremble  and  her  voice  was  steady. 

"This  is  not  the  game,  Joan,"  replied  Tom  sternly. 
"Back  you  go.  See  that  that  food  is  ready. " 

The  girl  turned  without  further  protest,  disappearing 
into  the  lighted  room;  and  we  remained  straining  our 
ears  for  other  sounds,  just  beside  the  open  window. 

The  noise  of  shouting  was  now  much  nearer;  a  tune 
roughly  bellowed,  and,  often  breaking  off  short  in  a 
roar,  was  plainly  distinguishable;  and  away  to  our 
left  a  like  noise,  only  fainter,  was  to  be  heard.  I  nodded 
towards  it,  and  Tom  replied  in  the  same  fashion;  but 
our  attention  was  chiefly  fixed  upon  the  gardens  ahead, 
from  which  there  came  no  more  disturbance.  Presently, 
however,  the  quiet  of  our  immediate  surroundings  was 
broken,  and  ahead  of  us,  where  the  hill  dropped  steeply 
at  the  farther  side  of  a  sloping  lawn,  we  made  out  that 
some  one  was  running  towards  the  house,  and,  by  the 
sound,  that  he  seemed  in  a  prodigious  hurry.  His  appear- 
ance from  the  belt  of  trees  that  bounded  the  lawn  was 
preceded  by  a  puffing  and  panting  that  I  knew  well; 
it  brought  me  the  vision  of  a  humorous,  bearded  face 
stuck  without  any  visible  neck  on  to  a  corpulent  body, 
and  of  little  eyes  that  twinkled  even  in  the  thick  of 
physical  distress. 

"It 's  Vanne,"  I  told  Tom;  "and  by  the  time  he  gets 
here  he '11  be  half  dead." 

Almost  as  I  spoke  he  emerged  from  the  trees,  pounding 
desperately  across  the  lawn,  his  breathing  enough  to 
frighten  any  one.  We  hailed  him,  and  he  dropped  into  a 


300  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

walk,  waving  a  hand  feebly  in  sign  that  he  had  heard.  A 
few  seconds  afterwards  he  stood  beside  us  on  the  terrace, 
and  it  was  plain  that  he  had  taken  Massingdale's  instruc- 
tions almost  literally,  and  had  run  most  of  the  way  from 
his  post.  The  sweat  streamed  from  him  like  water; 
his  face  was  purple,  the  veins  and  arteries  standing  out 
like  cords  about  his  head  and  neck;  and  he  laboured 
at  his  breathing,  with  bulging  half -closed  eyes,  so  that  I 
imagined  him  at  the  point  of  death.  He  was  past  speech, 
and  could  do  no  more  than  stand  before  us,  fighting  with 
his  exhaustion. 

Tom  said  nothing,  but,  slipping  his  arm  beneath  the 
man's  shoulders,  half  carried  him  into  the  house;  there 
he  lowered  him  into  an  arm-chair,  and  called  on  Joan 
to  bring  a  drink.  She  did  not  need  the  call,  and  had 
handed  Vanne  a  glass  almost  as  he  subsided  in  the 
chair;  from  which  thing  I  deduce  that  she  had  not 
obeyed  orders,  but  had  watched  us  from  the  window, 
and  so  had  guessed  what  would  be  needed.  Vanne 
took  the  glass  although  he  did  not  drink,  and  he  sum- 
moned a  smile  to  thank  the  girl  who  helped  him.  There- 
fore, seeing  that  he  would  recover,  which  at  his  first 
appearance  I  had  doubted,  I  left  him,  and  made  for  the 
table  where  the  food  was  set.  Loissel  and  De  Me"nillart 
had  come  back,  and  the  old  man  was  eating  while  our 
host  stood  beside  him  silent ;  through  the  door,  which  was 
open,  I  saw  the  nieces,  seated  close  together  with  fright- 
ened faces,  and  the  Vicomtesse,  rocking  her  baby  to 
sleep.  Then  Vanne  began  gasping  out  his  news,  and  I 
gave  my  attention  to  him  again. 

"You  hear  them,"  he  spluttered  between  attacks  of 
coughing.  "Sixty  or  seventy.  All  drunk.  They  bring 
with  them  a  cart.  Barrels  in  it.  Oil  I  think. " 

"Good  enough  for  us,"  interrupted  Tom,  standing  in 


Of  Death  and  of  Suspense          301 

front  of  him.  "You  take  a  rest  and  get  your  breath 
again.  You  're  clearly  the  sort  of  man  we  want,  only 
you  mustn't  kill  yourself.  You  must  have  sprinted!" 

Vanne,  somewhat  recovered,  laughed  and  coughed, 
pulled  himself  out  of  his  chair,  and  went  over  to  the 
table,  where  he  was  given  some  food  and  wine  by  Joan, 
who  made  him  sit  down  again. 

"Well-plucked  little  man,  that,"  whispered  Tom, 
turning  to  me.  "  Does  n't  bring  any  good  news,  though. 
If  they  are  bringing  oil  they  mean  business.  We  must 
get  the  women  off,  and  chance  it."  He  raised  his 
voice  and  addressed  the  Vicomte.  "I  think  you  had 
better  get  your  wife  and  the  others  into  the  car;  we 
shan't  do  any  good  by  waiting.  Steady  a  bit:  here  's 
another  of  the  outposts!" 

For  Blinkson  had  come  from  the  hall  while  Tom 
spoke,  and,  scarcely  less  than  Vanne,  he  showed  the 
signs  of  his  hurry.  He  looked  about  him  quietly,  getting 
his  breath,  and  he  held  himself  straight  with  the  loose- 
ness of  his  ordinary  carriage  disappeared;  his  eyes  had 
lost  their  dulness,  and  the  sodden  appearance  of  the  man 
was  changed. 

"What  news?  "  asked  Tom. 

' '  Bad, ' '  panted  Blinkson.  ' '  Nearly  a  hundred  of  them, 
I  should  think.  Mad  drunk.  Enough  firing  with  them 
to  burn  the  whole  place  in  twenty  minutes.  They  are 
coming  across  country;  should  be  here  in  less  than 
half  an  hour. " 

"Thanks,"  answered  Tom.  "Help  yourself  to  some- 
thing. You  '11  want  it  before  this  is  finished. " 

He  stood  in  thought  a  moment,  his  face  set  and  hard. 
I  looked  at  Joan  to  see  how  she  took  this  news,  and 
I  saw  her  busying  herself  with  helping  food,  seeming 
very  self-possessed,  although  her  pallor  showed  her  not 


302  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

blind  to  the  danger.  The  noise  outside  was  now  much 
greater,  and  sounded  even  in  the  midst  of  our  talk. 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  I  felt  my  heart  setting 
my  pulses  a  quicker  stroke. 

Then  Tom  issued  his  orders,  speaking  very  distinctly 
without  raising  his  voice. 

"Get  the  car  filled, "  he  commanded.  " It  must  make 
the  best  of  a  bad  job,  and  go  by  the  bridle  road  to  Cluny. 
Is  the  going  very  bad?" 

"Yes,"  said  I.  "You  '11  want  a  horse  to  help  it  up 
the  first  bit  out  of  the  hamlet. " 

"Very  well,"  he  answered.  "Please  see  to  that  too, 
Vicomte.  The  horse  had  better  start  immediately;  the 
car  should  follow  in  five  minutes. " 

De  Menillart  went  out  of  the  room,  shutting  the  door 
after  him;  and  I  make  no  doubt  that  he  said  good-bye 
to  his  wife  and  child  as  a  man  in  the  pass  that  he  was 
might.  Presently  he  returned,  before  the  given  time, 
I  think,  and  the  noise  of  the  departing  car  came  to  us 
clearly  through  the  open  door.  The  strain  of  the  situa- 
tion was  beginning  to  tell,  and  our  conversation  had, 
for  the  most  part,  died,  or  lived  only  in  fitful  bursts. 
The  ominous  noise  outside,  growing  louder  each  moment, 
the  different  voices  distinguishing  themselves  from  the 
general  sound,  held  all  our  attention;  and  the  picture 
of  hoarse,  ill-clad,  sweating,  drink-maddened  crowds 
was,  I  fancy,  in  all  our  minds.  I  walked  to  the  window, 
and  was  called  back  by  Tom;  I  tried  to  laugh  with 
Joan,  and  found  that  I,  not  less  than  she,  could  not 
manage  it ;  and  finally  I  sat  down  beside  her,  wondering 
why  Tom  did  not  give  us  something  else  to  do,  why  he 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  listening,  apparently 
content  in  idleness.  Then,  not  five  minutes  after  the 
car  had  started,  a  shot  sounded  loud  in  the  night,  the 


Of  Death  and  of  Suspense          303 

second  that  had  startled  us  that  evening;  and  after  it, 
following  close  upon  the  report,  a  scream  of  agony,  the 
cry,  it  seemed,  of  a  human  creature  in  mortal  pain. 

That  settled  us.  The  sound  had  come  from  the  other 
side  of  the  house;  we  fled  in  a  body  from  the  room, 
Joan  in  our  midst,  running  out  of  the  main  door  of  the 
house,  and  listening  for  some  other  noise.  Tom  alone 
remained  behind,  and  I  heard  him  roaring  at  us  to  come 
back. 

We  waited  in  strained  silence,  the  servants  mingling 
with  us,  and  we  heard  no  other  sounds  than  those  to 
which  we  had  listened  for  some  time,  and  the  distant 
beating  of  the  car.  So,  something  reassured,  we  returned 
to  the  drawing-room,  there  to  face  Tom's  wrath.  He 
stood  where  we  had  left  him,  and  he  showed  no  other 
emotion  than  a  flaming  anger. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  as  we  trooped  back,  "it  seems 
I  deal  with  a  crowd  of  idiots.  Must  you  go  rushing 
about  like  children,  because  a  hare  screams  when  it  is 
wounded?  Dick — Joan — I  hoped  you  had  more  sense. 
Bring  in  those  servants  out  there.  I  '11  show  the  lot  of 
you  I  mean  to  be  obeyed. " 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ACTION 

WHEN  the  servants  had  come,  sheepishly  enough, 
four  women  and  three  men,  into  the  room,  Tom 
addressed  us  all,  speaking  deliberately  and  seeming  to 
choose  his  words. 

"You  make  me  waste  time,"  he  began.  "We  '11  have 
no  more  of  this  rushing  about.  Monsieur  le  Vicomte 
has  asked  me  to  command  here;  I  intend  to  do  so. 
Our  chances  of  coming  out  of  this  business  without  loss 
rest  very  largely  with  you.  We  are  all  in  considerable 
danger;  you  can  increase  that  danger  or  diminish  it  as 
you  please.  If  you  do  not  obey  me — the  matter  rests 
with  you,  I  have  no  authority  over  you — I  do  not  waste 
my  breath  in  issuing  orders.  Which  is  it  to  be:  prompt 
obedience  in  everything,  or  your  own  management?" 

He  waited,  eyeing  the  lot  of  us  steadily. 

"We  obey  you  absolutely,  Monsieur  le  Lieutenant," 
answered  the  Vicomte  formally;  and  we  made  a  murmur 
of  assent. 

"Very  well,"  assented  Tom.  "Remember  what  you 
say.  You,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  the  servants,  "know 
what  to  do.  You  have  already  been  instructed.  The 
women  had  better  sit  in  the  dining-room,  and  not  the 
hall.  Keep  your  wits  about  you;  to  a  single  whistle 
you  give  no  attention,  even  if  it  is  repeated;  at  two  in 

304 


Action  305 

close  succession  you  come  as  quickly  as  you  can  into 
the  hall.  You  can  go;  and  unless  you  hear  the  two 
whistles  you  do  not  move  from  your  posts. " 

The  seven  men  and  women  left  the  room;  from  their 
faces,  and  the  women  were  badly  scared,  I  think  that 
they  felt,  not  less  than  we  did,  that  somehow  they  had 
committed  a  shameful  action  in  rushing  to  the  door. 
Tom  made  an  excellent  commander. 

When  they  were  gone,  he  walked  to  the  sofa,  where 
the  arms  were  set  out;  took  a  revolver,  of  which  there 
were  three,  for  himself;  handed  another  to  De  Me'nillart; 
and  gave  me  an  old  rifle  that  had  once  been  used  for 
big  game.  Then  he  asked  Loissel  whether  he  could 
shoot,  and  the  old  man  answered  that  he  could  not 
use  a  revolver  to  any  effect,  but  might  manage  a  shot- 
gun; this  he  was  given.  The  third  revolver  was  not 
used,  since  Blinkson  and  Vanne  were  already  armed, 
and  beside  it  there  remained  another  shotgun.  As 
we  were  helping  ourselves  to  cartridges,  a  shrill  whistle 
sounded  from  the  park  ahead.  I  know  that  we  started, 
but  we  waited  for  Tom  to  move,  and  he  made  no  sign; 
then,  very  shortly  after,  there  came  another  whistle, 
more  to  the  left,  and  still  Tom  was  silent;  finally,  more 
clearly  it  seemed  to  me  than  either  of  the  others,  a  last 
note  was  blown  from  the  direction  where  the  scream 
had  sounded,  where  Massingdale  had  watched  in  the 
woods.  At  that  Tom's  expression  changed;  he  passed 
his  hand  up  to  his  mouth,  and  I  read  in  his  eyes  the 
anxiety  that  he  had  hidden  from  us  so  well. 

" Three  of  them, "  he  murmured.  "We  're  pretty  well 
surrounded." 

Then  he  moved  to  the  window,  closing  and  bolting 
one  side  of  the  outer  shutters. 

"Those  whistles,"  he  told  us,  as  he  finished,  "were 


306  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

from  our  men  in  the  park,  telling  us  that  they  had 
sighted  the  strikers.  You  can  hear  that  they  are  getting 
close. "  The  noise,  indeed,  was  now  so  great  that  we  had 
to  raise  our  voices  when  we  talked;  a  dull,  confused 
shouting,  that  broke  out  occasionally  in  shrieks  and 
cries.  "Our  men,"  continued  Tom,  "will  close  in  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house,  to  keep  the  avenue  open. 
The  third  whistle  suggests  a  party  we  had  not  expect- 
ed. Massingdale  was  out  there,  I  think.  He  has  not 
reported." 

It  seemed  that  he  made  the  statement  simply,  imply- 
ing nothing,  announcing  an  obvious  fact;  yet  the  shot 
and  the  scream  were  in  our  minds,  and  a  new  terror 
held  us.  I  tried  to  persuade  myself  that  a  hare  had 
cried,  that  absence  did  not  mean  disaster,  but  the  whole 
business  seemed  differently  cast  now  that  this  possi- 
bility was  ahead  of  us.  Joan  had  given  a  sort  of  sob 
when  Tom  made  his  statement;  she  thought  no  more 
about  appearances  or  past  pretensions,  but  ran  to  where 
her  brother  stood,  seizing  him  by  the  arm,  her  face 
raised  to  his  imploringly. 

"We  must  do  something,"  she  pleaded.  "We  can't 
leave  him.  Oh,  Tom,  you  won't  leave  him ! " 

He  put  his  disengaged  hand  on  her  shoulder,  looking 
down  at  her  in  sympathy ;  and  his  voice  was  very  gentle 
as  he  told  her  that  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  do  anything, 
that  in  all  probability  Massingdale  was  perfectly  safe. 
She,  therefore,  seeing  that  he  spoke  the  truth,  did  not 
urge  him  any  more,  but  went  over  to  the  fireplace, 
leaning  her  hands  upon  the  chimney-piece  so  that  we 
should  not  see  her  face.  And  in  the  moment  which 
followed,  while  no  one  spoke  in  the  room,  the  roar 
outside  seemed  to  have  lessened,  as  if  the  strikers  strug- 
gled up  the  hillside,  and  so  had  other  uses  for  their  breath. 


Action  307 

"We  should  have  five  minutes  more,  I  think," 
announced  Tom.  "Vanne,  get  into  the  next  room, 
the  library;  you  can  command  the  south  side  of  the 
house  from  there.  You  '11  find  the  shutters  closed  and 
the  windows  open.  Don't  take  a  light.  Fire  if  any 
one  tries  to  get  near  the  wall.  Loissel,  take  the  dining- 
room  ;  we  '11  want  as  many  as  we  can  spare  on  this  side. 
Keep  a  lookout  towards  the  other  end  of  the  terrace. 
Mind  the  lights  are  down.  Hang  about  for  a  bit,  Blink- 
son;  when  the  show  begins,  go  wherever  you  think 
help  is  wanted.  Remember,  all  of  you,  two  whistles  in 
quick  succession  must  bring  you  to  the  hall.  Report  at 
once,  here,  if  the  place  gets  alight  anywhere.  Off  you 
go." 

At  his  direction,  those  of  us  who  were  left  in  the 
drawing-room  moved  the  heavier  furniture  towards  the 
open  window,  so  as  to  make  a  barricade  in  case  we 
were  rushed;  Joan  meanwhile,  put'  out  most  of  the 
candles,  leaving  the  place  in  a  half-darkness.  While 
we  worked,  lifting  the  heavy  pieces  without  a  thought 
to  the  exertion,  our  attention  towards  the  eardens, 
waiting  for  a  sudden  burst  of  shouting  and  the  trampling 
of  men's  feet,  the  noise  of  a  horse,  desperately  driven, 
sounded  above  the  strikers'  voices;  the  beast  was  pulled 
up  before  the  front  door,  which  we  heard  opened,  and 
a  moment  afterwards  Massingdale  burst  into  the  room. 
He  seemed  to  look  round  for  some  one,  and  finding 
Joan,  frowned,  as  if  little  pleased.  He  had  no  hat, 
his  clothes  were  torn  and  stained,  and  a  great  scratch, 
on  which  the  blood  had  dried,  ran  across  his  face;  his 
hair  was  standing  about  his  head  like  a  broom,  and  his 
eyes  were  wild  with  excitement;  but  he  spoke  quite 
calmly,  and  helped  himself  to  the  spare  revolver  and 
some  cartridges  without  hesitation. 


308  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"Just  in  time,"  he  gasped;  "I  didn't  want  to  miss 
the  beginning.  The  soldiers  ought  to  be  here  in  half 
an  hour  or  so.  I  '11  explain  later.  Ritaud  is  leading 
the  lot  who  came  past  me. " 

He  dropped  into  silence  like  the  rest  of  us;  and  I 
saw  that  his  eyes  had  turned  again  to  Joan,  and  that 
she,  after  the  first  glance  as  he  entered,  had  not  looked 
at  him.  But  I  had  other  things  to  think  about  than 
unrequited  affection,  and  I  paid  no  heed  to  her  expression. 

A  sudden  roar,  as  if  every  man  among  the  strikers 
exercised  his  lungs  to  their  fullest  extent,  burst  out 
from  round  the  corner  of  the  house;  it  was  taken  up 
straight  in  front  of  us,  and  again  by  the  party  to  the 
left.  The  lawn  upon  the  farther  side  of  the  terrace 
grew  on  the  instant  covered  with  figures,  shrieking  and 
shouting,  dancing  and  waving  their  arms;  a  sight, 
showed  by  the  soft  light  of  the  moon  and  backed  by 
the  dark  shadow  of  the  trees,  that  I  am  not  likely  to 
forget.  The  din  was  awful;  all  restraint  and  all  reason 
seemed  gone  from  the  men,  yet  no  one  of  them  advanced 
to  the  terrace,  or  came  nearer  than  thirty  or  forty  yards 
from  the  house.  Within  the  drawing-room  there  was 
no  sound.  We  waited,  I,  at  least,  gripping  my  gun  with 
an  odd  sense  of  satisfaction;  and  we  watched  for  some 
sign  from  Tom.  He  leaned  against  the  closed  shutter, 
staring  into  the  gardens,  and  a  yard  behind  him  stood 
Massingdale,  very  still  and  upright,  with  the  Vicomte  by 
his  side. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  seconds,  which  I  counted  minutes, 
Tom  turned  and  whispered  to  the  men  behind  him ;  then 
at  their  answer,  I  imagine,  beckoned  to  me. 

"Kneel  down,"  he  told  me;  "don't  show  yourself. 
Sight  between  the  slats  of  the  shutter;  and  fire,  if  I 
sign  to  you.  Hit  the  spokesman,  if  there  is  one. " 


Action  309 

Upon  that  he  led  the  way  out  on  to  the  terrace,  the 
Vicomte  and  Massingdale  following  him.  I  felt  Blink- 
son  and  Joan  draw  up  behind  me  as  the  three  men  walked 
into  the  garden;  and  I  had  to  make  the  girl  move  as 
her  skirt  brushed  against  my  trigger  arm.  After  that 
my  attention  did  not  wander  from  the  events  that 
passed  outside. 

De  Menillart  stood  between  the  other  two,  against 
the  balustrade  just  to  the  right  of  the  main  steps  leading 
from  the  terrace;  and  at  sight  of  him  the  crowd  in  the 
gardens  screamed  in  their  fury,  yelling  to  those  who 
were  round  to  the  left  that  he  had  appeared.  He  waited 
a  moment,  his  heels  together  in  a  stiff  military  attitude, 
his  head  carried  high,  then  he  held  up  his  right  hand, 
and  a  comparative  silence  fell  on  the  mob. 

"  My  men, "  he  shouted,  his  clear,  high,  well-bred  voice 
losing  nothing  of  its  usual  dignity,  "this  is  not  the  way 
to  act.  I  assure  you,  on  my  honour,  that  by  these 
methods  you  will  gain  nothing  from  me,  and  only 
punishment  from  the  State,  who,  represented  by  the 
soldiers,  will  soon  be  here.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you 
go  back  to  your  villages,  I  will  do  my  best  to  see  that 
you  do  not  suffer  for  this.  All  of  you,"  he  cried  very 
distinctly,  "except  the  man  who  killed  my  agent, 
Dupont.  He  shall  be  punished. " 

A  jeer,  a  burst  of  jeering  rather,  greeted  him  as  he 
finished  speaking;  hoarse  voices  yelled  foul  oaths  into 
the  night,  and  others  fouler  obscenities;  the  mob  swayed, 
and  screamed,  and  danced  again,  but  they  did  not  ad- 
vance. Then  Ritaud,  the  innkeeper  of  Mailly  and  the 
chief  malcontent  of  the  district,  stepped  out  from  among 
them,  and  an  instant  silence  followed  his  appearance, 
a  silence  more  frightening  than  any  noise.  The  fellow 
carried  a  dead  hare  by  the  heels;  he  stood  insolently 


310  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

staring  up  at  the  three  figures  on  the  terrace,  his  right 
hand  resting  on  his  hip,  and  his  eyes  were  mad  and 
wild  with  drink  and  passion.  He  was  a  squat  fellow 
with  pig's  eyes,  a  bullet  head,  and  a  coarse,  vicious 
mouth;  the  sort  of  man,  I  reckoned  him,  who  lives  on 
talk  and  other  people's  work. 

"Bonsoir,  patron,"  he  screamed,  and  the  crowd 
behind  him  yelled  with  laughter.  "You  would  give 
terms  to  us,  patron,"  he  went  on,  tutoying  the  Vicomte. 
"It  is  well.  But  we  don't  want  your  terms,  bourgeois; 
we  will  dictate  our  own.  You  were  very  haughty  yester- 
day; now  you  shall  watch  while  we  amuse  you.  Then — 
eh  bien!  then  we  '11  see.  Eh,  my  comrades  ? ' ' 

He  was  evidently  held  an  orator  among  his  friends, 
for  they  roared  with  delight  at  his  words,  and  it  was 
some  moments  before  he  could  make  himself  heard 
again.  Finally  he  secured  silence;  seeming,  when  he 
began  afresh,  inspired  to  greater  efforts. 

"You  see  this  hare, "  he  shouted,  holding  it  up.  " It  is 
your  hare,  patron.  We  are  going  to  make  a  little  fire 
to  cook  your  game  before  your  eyes.  Oh  yes,  Monsieur 
le  Vicomte,  you  '11  be  warm  enough  in  your  fine  house. 
You  '11  find  that  the  poor  working-man,  by  whose  work 
you  live,  can  sometimes  defend  himself.  One  word 
more,  patron.  You  have  an  English  guest — your  dam 
has  gone  with  her  brat,  I  suppose — I  saw  the  girl  this 
morning  in  your  garden.  I  '11  come  and  fetch  her  before 
the  hare  is  cooked.  She  will  make  a  fine  dessert.  I  '11 
show  her  that  a  poor  man  can  kiss  and " 

He  never  finished  the  sentence.  I  saw  Massingdale's 
right  arm  go  up;  and,  together  with  the  report  of  his 
revolver  it  seemed,  Ritaud  dropped  where  he  stood, 
writhed  a  moment  on  the  ground,  and  then  lay  still. 

Following  the  shot  there  was  a  moment's  pause,  as  if 


Action  311 

the  sudden  action  had  taken  the  strikers  by  surprise, 
had  given  them  a  certain  timidity;  but  the  lull  did  not 
last  long,  a  few  seconds  perhaps,  and  then  we  were  done 
with  any  waiting.  Ritaud  raised  himself  on  his  elbow, 
spoke  to  the  men  about  him,  though  his  words  did  not 
reach  us,  and  was  lifted  in  their  arms  and  carried  out 
of  sight  among  them.  Immediately  another  leader 
appeared  in  his  place,  the  agitator  from  Paris,  I  dis- 
covered afterwards,  who  gesticulated  and  screamed 
before  the  crowd,  waving  his  arms  towards  the  house, 
very  obviously  urging  the  attack.  The  strikers,  I  will 
say  so  much  for  them,  needed  little  invitation;  with  a 
roar  that  spread  round  the  corner  of  the  house  to  the 
left,  they  advanced  with  a  rush,  scrambling  and  swear- 
ing, jostling  each  other  in  their  eagerness.  I  did  not 
look  for  Tom's  signal,  but  fired  straight  at  the  man  who 
led  the  rush,  and  to  my  shame,  I  missed  him;  at  the 
same  time  I  heard  the  three  revolvers  on  the  terrace 
going,  and  all  round  the  house,  it  seemed  to  me,  the 
firing  had  commenced.  It  was  not  on  our  side  alone,  the 
strikers  had  arms  with  them  which  they  used  wildly,  and, 
in  that  first  attack,  to  no  effect.  One  shot  hit  the  shutter 
about  three  feet  above  my  head;  I  heard  Joan  exclaim; 
turned  to  see  if  she  was  hit,  and  saw  her  wiping  the  blood 
from  a  splinter  scratch  upon  her  forehead.  At  the  same 
time  Blinkson  seized  her  by  the  shoulders,  forcing  her 
without  ceremony  to  the  back  of  the  room.  Then,  as  I 
looked  back  to  the  garden  again,  I  was  almost  upset  by 
the  entrance  of  the  Vicomte,  Massingdale,  and  Tom,  who 
slammed  the  shutter  behind  them  as  they  slipped  into 
the  house.  I  peered  between  the  slats;  saw  a  great 
bearded  fellow  at  the  top  of  the  steps;  fired  at  him,  and 
sent  him  flying,  like  a  dummy,  the  way  that  he  had 
come.  Tom  was  beside  me,  the  Vicomte  and  Massing- 


312  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

dale  at  the  window  to  the  left,  and  Blinkson  on  the 
right;  the  mob  was  now  swarming  on  to  the  terrace, 
and  we  snapped  at  them  as  quickly  as  we  could,  hoping 
for  as  much  effect  as  possible.  We  must  have  damaged 
them  more  than  they  liked — by  luck  rather  than  good 
shooting,  for  it  was  impossible  to  get  a  decent  sight 
of  them  through  the  shutters — because  they  stopped  the 
rush  and  retired  behind  the  shelter  of  the  terrace  wall, 
where  we  could  not  touch  them.  Owing  to  the  slant 
of  the  slats  we  could  not  see  far  into  the  gardens,  but 
could  hear  them  moving  about  and  shouting  to  each 
other. 

"This  won't  do,"  said  Tom.  "We  can't  get  at  the 
devils  here,  or  see  what  they  are  up  to  either.  Blinkson, 
take  a  run  round  and  see  how  things  are  going  on  in  the 
other  rooms.  Vicomte,  you  and  Dick  had  better  get 
up- stairs.  Wait  a  bit,  I  '11  have  a  look — damn!" 

I  had  been  attending  to  the  loading  of  my  rifle,  an 
abominable  instrument  that  jammed  whenever  I  tried 
to  work  it  quickly,  but  jumped  back  to  squinting 
through  the  shutter  at  his  exclamation.  I  was  not 
comforted  by  what  I  saw.  A  barrel  was  being  hoisted 
on  to  the  balustrade,  a  barrel  with  a  flaming  rag  in 
the  bunghole;  and  the  men  who  placed  it  in  position 
were  out  of  sight  and  reach.  Tom  had  opened  the 
shutter  so  that  through  the  crack  we  could  see  more 
plainly  what  was  happening;  but  there  was  no  sign 
of  any  striker,  they  had  crouched  beneath  the  terrace 
wall,  or  had  taken  shelter  among  the  trees.  While  the 
barrel  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  coping,  Massingdale 
kicked  the  shutter  wide,  and  made  an  attempt  to  rush 
out  towards  the  burning  oil;  but  Tom  caught  him  by 
the  neck  and  threw  him  back  into  the  room. 

"You  fool!"  he  cried,  and  two  shots  hit  the  frame- 


Action  313 

work  of  the  window  as  if  to  point  the  remark.  "They 
know  enough  to  cover  that  damned  tub. " 

As  he  was  speaking,  the  oil  burst  into  flame;  the 
men  behind  gave  the  barrel  a  heave;  it  fell  from  the 
parapet,  rolled  across  the  terrace,  and  brought  up 
against  the  wall  of  the  house,  burning  furiously.  Almost 
immediately  the  shutters,  behind  which  the  Vicomte 
stood,  caught  and  crackled. 

"I  pee  your  point,"  said  Massingdale,  with  a  laugh 
that  was  no  affectation,  and  still  seated  on  the  floor 
where  Tom  had  thrown  him.  "We're  all  to  die  in 
company.  I  call  that  sociable. " 

Then  Blinkson  ran  into  the  room. 

"Outbuildings  well  alight,"  he  announced.  "Wind 
setting  towards  the  house.  Got  your  own  fire,  too, 
I  see." 

Tom  turned  to  the  Vicomte,  who  had  stepped  away 
from  the  burning  window,  and  on  whose  face  there 
was  a  bitterness  which  we  could  not  share. 

"We  can't  save  the  place,  sir,"  he  stated.  "We  shall 
have  to  run  for  it. " 

De  Menillart  nodded,  looking  round  the  room  sadly. 
I  think  that,  at  the  moment,  he  had  forgotten  the  danger 
in  which  we  carried  all  our  lives,  and  that  he  remembered 
only  his  household  gods  that  were  being  sacrificed ;  on 
which  count  I  hold  him  a  man  of  courage  and  of  feeling. 

So  Tom,  having  obtained  his  consent  to  abandoning 
the  place,  blew  two  shrill  calls  on  the  whistle  that  he 
carried,  and  ordered  us  into  the  hall;  not  too  soon,  for 
the  fire  had  already  spread  to  the  other  windows  and 
was  hot  on  our  backs  as  we  left.  While  the  household 
was  assembling,  no  one  seeming  very  anxious  to  linger 
at  his  post,  Tom  spoke  to  me  a  moment  with  strange 
earnestness. 


314  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"Stick  by  Joan,  Dick,"  he  said;  "and  remember — 
it  seems  an  extraordinary  thing  to  say  in  a  civilised 
country  like  this — it  is  far  better  that  she  should  be 
dead  than  in  the  hands  of  these  drunken  swine  to-night. " 

"I  won't  forget,"  I  promised  him.  "I  '11  see  that  she 
does  n't  come  to  that. " 

We  shook  hands  on  the  bargain,  and  he  turned  to 
give  orders  for  the  retreat. 

We  were  to  make  for  Massingdale's  house  in  the 
hamlet,  which  could  be  far  more  easily  defended  than 
the  chateau;  and  we  were  to  go  there  in  a  close  body, 
the  women  in  the  middle,  trusting  to  the  ditches  at 
each  side  of  the  avenue  to  keep  away  the  main  rush 
of  the  strikers  until  we  had  got  a  decent  start.  Our 
one  chance  seemed  to  rest  on  the  quickness  with  which 
we  made  our  escape,  on  the  possibility  of  slipping  out 
of  the  house  before  we  were  noticed.  There  had  come 
no  firing  from  the  direction  of  the  drive,  and  there 
seemed  a  fair  chance  that  the  four  of  our  men,  who 
had  watched  the  park  walls,  would  be  waiting  for  us 
there;  in  any  case,  we  were  in  no  position  to  choose  a 
course  of  action,  but  had  to  make  what  we  could  of 
the  only  one  that  was  left  to  us.  So  we  formed  up  at 
once;  Loissel,  Vanne,  and  the  three  men  who  had  been 
in  the  house  being  the  van  of  our  squad;  the  women 
servants  and  Joan,  with  myself  as  a  sort  of  personal 
attendant,  in  the  middle;  the  Vicomte,  Blinkson,  Massing- 
dale,  and  Tom  bringing  up  the  rear. 

The  hall  door  was  flung  open,  and  we  rushed  out, 
having  instructions  to  run  for  the  shelter  of  the  drive 
as  hard  as  we  could.  Fortune  was  with  us,  and  we  got 
to  that  shelter,  such  as  it  was,  without  mishap.  The 
strikers  were  so  pleased  at  having  set  the  house  alight 
at  the  first  attempt  that  they  had  forgotten  us  for  the 


Action  315 

moment,  as  Tom  had  reckoned  that  they  might,  and 
they  danced  and  shrieked  about  the  blaze  like  evil 
children.  Half  a  dozen  or  so  of  them  were  on  this  side 
of  the  house,  armed  with  no  more  aggressive  weapons 
than  a  couple  of  barrels  of  oil,  and  they  showed  no 
sign  of  fight,  but  ran  off  round  the  corner  of  the  building, 
yelling  loud  that  we  escaped.  Three  of  our  men  were 
waiting  for  us  at  the  head  of  the  drive,  the  fourth,  we 
learned  afterwards,  had  been  knocked  on  the  head 
as  he  made  his  way  from  the  wall.  So,  with  some  hope 
of  making  good  our  escape,  we  started  on  the  retreat 
down  the  avenue. 

We  ran.  Reckoning  time  everything,  we  made  what 
pace  we  could,  which,  since  there  were  women  with  us, 
was  not  as  fast  as  we  had  hoped.  In  the  shadow  of  the 
trees,  with  here  and  there  a  shaft  of  moonlight  falling 
like  a  silver  band  across  our  path,  in  the  warm  night 
air,  and  with  the  good  scent  of  woods  about  us,  we 
stumbled  and  hurried,  a  new  and  warmer  light  growing 
behind  us,  casting  fantastic  shadows  on  the  way  ahead. 
For  perhaps  fifty  yards  we  advanced  without  hindrance, 
and  then  a  burst  of  shouting  told  us  that  the  pursuit 
had  started.  I  did  not  look  round,  but  I  could  hear  the 
noise  of  a  considerable  number  of  men  running  in  our 
direction.  I  was  too  much  concerned  with  keeping  the 
maid-servants  from  any  breakdown,  which  was  a  thing 
I  feared  more  than  the  attack  behind  us.  They  were 
feeling  the  strain  of  the  unaccustomed  pace,  and  they 
panted  and  gasped,  clutching  at  each  other  as  they  ran. 
Then  one  of  them,  looking  over  her  shoulder  in  terror, 
missed  her  footing  and  fell  sprawling  on  the  path.  We 
got  her  on  her  feet,  Joan  and  I,  as  soon  as  we  could 
manage  it,  but  the  incident  had  checked  us  during  some 
few  seconds,  and  the  advance-guard,  not  hearing  the 


3i 6  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

noise  of  the  fall,  had  got  some  yards  away.  I  looked 
behind  and  saw  that  Tom's  party  had  faced  about  and 
stopped,  so  that  they  might  meet  the  attack  with  more 
effect;  thinking,  therefore,  that  we  could  give  them  no 
help,  I  urged  the  women  to  start  running  again,  to  catch 
up  those  in  front.  Here,  however,  I  met  an  unexpected 
resistance.  Joan  absolutely  refused  to  move:  she  would 
not,  she  declared,  leave  the  others  behind.  I  had  no  time 
to  argue;  the  servants  were  already  moving  on — they 
at  least  were  only  intent  on  safety — and  I  did  not  wish 
the  party  divided;  that  Joan  was  moved  by  some  idea 
of  facing  the  danger  I  did  not  ask  or  care.  It  is  one  thing 
to  refuse  to  save  one's  own  skin,  it  is  another  to  be 
entrusted  with  a  woman's  safety.  I  seized  her  round 
the  waist,  and  attempted  to  carry  her  off.  For  all  her 
slightness  she  was  amazing  strong;  in  that  my  first  and 
only  struggle  with  a  woman  I  found  that  I  had  a  harder 
job  of  it  than  I  had  thought.  As  I  staggered  along, 
imploring  her  to  do  as  I  ordered,  I  was  suddenly  aware 
of  three  of  the  strikers  emerging  from  the  ditch  on  the 
left  side  of  the  avenue.  I  let  go  of  Joan  on  the  instant, 
at  the  same  time  shouting  to  the  others  for  help.  Then, 
as  the  men  rushed  at  us,  I  got  in  front  of  her  and  at- 
tempted to  use  my  gun,  with  which  I  had  been  mightily 
hampered  in  my  struggle  with  Joan,  as  a  club.  I  was  a 
shade  too  slow.  The  foremost  of  the  men  was  on  me 
with  a  stick;  his  blow  I  partly  guarded,  but  it  sent  me 
flying  sideways,  and  I  came  heavily  to  ground.  Before  I 
could  get  up,  the  brute  had  made  a  rush  at  Joan,  whose 
expression,  as  she  stared  in  horror  at  him,  I  do  not  like 
to  remember.  Then,  as  I  scrambled  to  my  knees, 
Blinkson  dashed  into  the  fray;  he  hurled  an  empty 
revolver  straight  at  the  head  of  the  man  who  advanced 
at  Joan,  and  the  fellow  went  down  like  an  ox.  With  a 


Action  317 

cry  of  fury,  the  old  man,  his  eyeglass  hanging  broken 
from  its  cord,  sprang  barehanded  at  the  second  man, 
who  came  to  take  his  fallen  fellow's  place.  I  was  on  my 
feet  now,  just  behind  Blinkson,  and  I  saw  what  was 
coming  but  could  not  stop  it.  The  second  man,  a  huge 
ruffian  with  a  red  beard,  fired  an  ancient  pistol  point 
blank  at  his  opponent,  who  staggered  back  into  my  arms 
bringing  me  again  to  ground.  He  fell  across  my  legs, 
and  for  a  moment  I  lay  there  unable  to  get  up ;  in  that 
moment  the  man  with  the  red  beard  had  seized  Joan 
in  his  arms,  his  face  was  close  to  hers,  his  eyes  alight 
with  his  foul,  drink-fired  passion.  As  I  attempted  to 
struggle  up  to  him,  the  third  man  came  along,  jealous  of 
his  comrade's  capture.  I  caught  him  by  the  leg,  and 
pulled  him  over.  Then,  for  the  whole  affair  was  a  matter 
of  seconds,  Massingdale  followed  Blinkson  in  answer  to 
my  call.  His  face  was  like  a  dead  man's  in  colour, 
and  if  ever  a  man  has  shown  the  lust  for  blood  plain 
written  in  his  expression,  he  did  at  that  moment.  He 
got  the  man,  who  held  Joan,  by  his  throat,  gripping 
him  from  behind  and  forcing  him  backwards;  then, 
as  the  fellow  loosed  his  hold  of  the  girl  and  tried  to 
fight  his  assailant,  Massingdale,  using  only  one  hand 
on  his  throat,  snatched  a  revolver  from  his  pocket, 
and  with  it  brained  the  man  he  held.  As  the  body 
slipped  to  the  ground,  I  heard  him  curse  the  dead  thing 
that  he  had  killed ;  and  after  that  he  turned  to  Joan. 

Then  Tom  and  the  Vicomte,  with  the  men  who  had 
joined  them  at  the  head  of  the  drive,  came  up,  and  we 
started  down  the  avenue  again.  About  thirty  of  the 
strikers  stood  in  a  body  in  front  of  the  house,  uncertain 
what  they  should  do;  we  made  the  most  of  their  hesi- 
tancy, and  forced  the  pace  of  our  retreat  as  much  as 
possible.  Loissel,  Vanne,  and  the  others  in  advance 


3i 8  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

had  discovered  that  there  was  something  wrong,  and 
waited  for  us,  so  that  we  moved  in  one  body;  now, 
however,  we  no  longer  ran,  but  walked  together,  keep- 
ing a  sharp  lookout  about  us. 

The  peasants  behind  us,  who  were  each  moment 
being  reinforced,  did  not  take  long  to  decide  upon  a 
course  of  action,  and  half  of  them  were  already  crawling 
along  the  ditches  before  we  had  covered  another  fifteen 
yards.  The  chateau  was  now  well  alight;  the  crackle 
and  roar  of  the  burning,  the  shouting  of  the  strikers, 
and,  immediately  about  us,  the  quiet  rustling  of  the 
trees,  combining  to  a  strange  effect.  The  black  mass 
of  the  building,  its  windows  showing  forth  a  fiercer 
light  than  they  had  known  before,  faced  us  when  we 
looked  back,  and  before  it  there  ran  and  danced  the 
figures  of  the  strikers,  silhouetted  with  something  of 
a  touch  of  fantasy  against  the  glare.  The  memory  of 
that  scene  is  unfaded  with  me.  I  can  see  it  now  much 
as  I  saw  it  then;  I  can  feel  the  night  air  blow  cool  and 
sweet  about  me;  I  can  smell  the  smell  of  burning;  and, 
though  at  times  I  find  them  indistinct  and  blurred,  I 
can  recall  the  set,  anxious  faces  of  my  companions,  and 
recollect  how  we  moved  in  silence,  having  neither  thought 
nor  time  for  words. 

Before  we  had  moved  far,  before  the  first  peasant 
in  the  ditch  had  crawled  ten  feet,  Massingdale  halted 
and  swung  round.  Tom  called  out  to  him  to  know 
what  he  did,  and  for  answer  he  pointed  back  along  the 
avenue  to  where  two  bodies  lay  together,  moving  towards 
them  as  he  did  so.  Then  I  remembered  that  Blinkson 
lay  where  he  had  fallen,  that  I  had  not  thought  to  look 
whether  he  was  little  or  much  injured,  living  or  dead; 
and  I  grew  hot  through  shame  of  such  forgetfulness. 

Massingdale  ran  to  where  the  old  man  lay,  a  huddled 


Action  319 

heap  that  did  not  move,  and  as  he  ran  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  the  strikers  ahead  of  him.  Joan  was  beside  me, 
and  I  caught  a  sight  of  her  face,  drawn  and  very  white, 
with  strained  eyes  staring  before  her;  she  had  put  a 
hand  upon  my  arm,  and  her  fingers  gripped  into  my 
skin  through  the  coat-sleeve.  The  peasants  made  no 
move  until  Massingdale  stooped  to  pick  up  the  wounded 
man;  then,  with  a  howl  of  anger  or  triumph,  they  sent 
a  volley  of  stones  at  him,  and  the  men  on  the  drive  broke 
into  a  run.  He  stood  up  straight,  all  his  movements 
seeming  very  deliberate;  produced  his  revolver,  and 
fired  the  five  chambers  into  the  mob;  following  on  this, 
he  stooped  again,  the  fierceness  of  his  attack  having 
given  him  a  momentary  respite,  seized  Blinkson  in  his 
arms,  and  came  staggering  towards  us.  A  second  volley 
of  stones  fell  round  him,  many  of  them  hitting  their 
mark,  but  he  struggled  on.  As  he  got  back  to  us,  as  we 
made  way  for  him  so  that  he  could  carry  his  burden  into 
some  sort  of  shelter,  I  saw  that  his  head  was  bleeding 
from  a  gaping  cut,  and  that  he  had  the  dazed  look  of  a 
man  not  fully  conscious.  The  situation  was,  however, 
not  such  as  to  permit  much  observation,  and  the  moment 
he  had  passed  us  we  formed  in  a  line  across  the  road, 
firing  at  the  crowd  in  front.  The  fusillade  of  stones  was 
getting  uncomfortably  warm:  De  Menillart  had  been 
hit  on  the  wrist,  and  had  dropped  his  revolver  with  an 
oath ;  one  of  our  men  was  down ;  and  Vanne  had  doubled 
up,  gasping,  from  a  blow  in  the  wind.  I  had  fired  my 
last  cartridge,  and  stood  useless,  yet  not  caring  to  desert 
the  others  and  seek  shelter,  guarding  my  head  as  well 
as  I  could,  imagining  that  here  was  the  finish  for  us, 
and  picturing  the  shape  that  it  would  take,  when  the 
noise  of  galloping  horses  sounded  behind  us,  and  a  sharp 
voice  called  out  a  word  of  command. 


32O  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"Make  way,"  it  shouted  again.  "Make  way,  mes- 
sieurs. We  '11  settle  them  now. " 

Even  as  the  man  behind  called  out  to  us,  the  mob 
in  front  halted,  and  the  stones  fell  about  us  no  more; 
the  next  second  the  strikers  were  flying  in  all  direc- 
tions, we  were  scrambling  in  the  ditches,  and  a  company 
of  cavalry,  led  by  an  officer  who  saluted  us  as  he  passed 
us,  cantered  by.  I  have  often  made  the  usual  English 
criticism  about  the  appearance  of  the  French  conscript, 
I  still  see  no  reason  to  deny  that  he  is  abominably 
badly  uniformed,  but  I  there  and  then  determined, 
and  I  have  not  changed  my  views,  that  he  can  be  an 
uncommon  useful  fellow  at  a  pinch.  As  on  that  Septem- 
ber night  we,  lying  in  a  ditch,  watched  him  ride  past 
in  goodly  numbers,  we  all  of  us  named  him  in  our  hearts, 
or  so  I  fancy,  the  most  satisfying  picture  of  military 
power  that  our  eyes  had  ever  looked  upon. 

After  the  troop  had  passed,  while  from  all  about  the 
burning  house  the  shouting  suddenly  ceased,  being 
exchanged  for  an  occasional  shriek  and  the  noise  of 
horses  galloping  and  of  men  running,  we  remained  in 
the  ditch,  without  any  speech,  so  far  as  I  remember.  I 
became  conscious  of  a  great  bodily  fatigue,  and  of  a 
desire  to  sit  still,  doing  nothing,  thinking  of  nothing, 
more  strong  than  I  had  hitherto  experienced;  I  leaned 
against  the  bank,  listening  in  somewhat  detached 
fashion  to  the  sounds  about  me,  and  giving  little  or  no 
attention  to  my  companions.  As  I  rested,  aware  vaguely 
that  the  others  did  as  I  did,  a  sergeant  and  four  privates 
came  riding  back  to  us. 

"Monsieur  le  Vicomte  de  Menillart?"  he  inquired, 
addressing  the  silent  company  in  the  ditch. 

"Yes,  sergeant,"  answered  the  Vicomte,  stepping  on 
to  the  road. 


Action  321 

"  Captain  Monet  presents  his  compliments  to  Monsieur 
le  Vicomte,"  continued  the  sergeant,  saluting  stiffly, 
"and  he  suggests  that  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  and  his 
party  should  go  down  to  the  village.  The  chateau 
cannot  be  saved,  and  it  is,  doubtless,  monsieur's  wish 
to  be  under  shelter  again  as  soon  as  possible.  As  for 
the  strikers,  Captain  Monet  says  that  he  will  very  soon 
settle  with  them." 

The  suggestion  seemed  a  good  one,  and  we  followed 
it  at  once.  Wearily,  with  little  talk,  we  got  on  our  way 
again,  accompanied  by  the  five  soldiers,  and  we  walked 
down  the  hill  towards  the  hamlet,  even  De  Me'nillart 
expressing  no  wish  to  see  the  last  of  the  destruction  of 
his  home.  Blinkson  we  carried  as  tenderly  as  possible; 
he  was  conscious,  but  seemed  in  a  bad  way,  although 
he  assured  us  that  he  did  not  suffer.  When  we  were 
clear  of  the  avenue  and  out  in  the  moonlight  again,  we 
could  see  something  of  the  alteration  that  the  night 
had  made  in  our  appearance,  how  we  were  all  grimed 
with  dirt,  and  dishevelled,  with  white,  tired  faces,  and 
eyes  that  showed  plainly  the  strain  which  we  had  stood. 
Tom  alone  appeared  to  some  advantage,  seeming  little 
affected,  and  cheering  us  all  with  an  occasional  word; 
Massingdale  stumbled  along,  his  head  down,  a  hand- 
kerchief bound  to  his  wound.  He  has  since  told  me 
that  he  remembers  very  little  of  what  happened  after 
he  had  taken  Blinkson  in  his  arms,  until  he  was  back 
again  in  his  own  house  and  had  drunk  some  brandy. 
Joan,  looking  very  slight  and  shaken,  although  she 
made  no  complaint  and  refused  to  be  helped  along, 
walked  between  Tom  and  De  Me'nillart,  her  eyes  turn- 
ing very  often  to  Massingdale,  who  went  just  in  front. 

So,  very  far  from  a  gay  company,  and  carrying  in 
our  midst  one  who  bore  testimony  to  the  serious  nature 


322  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

of  the  evening's  happenings,  we  arrived  at  our  house, 
and  were  met  by  Hendick,  Marellac,  and  Jeanne,  even 
our  good  housekeeper  showing  some  change  in  her  usual 
placid  manner. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE   PASSING   OF  A  GALLANT  GENTLEMAN 

THE  house  seemed  very  quiet  as  we  entered  it;  the 
hall  had  been  set  in  order,  and  was  no  longer 
littered  with  our  belongings  as  it  was  wont  to  be;  the 
whole  place  had  the  trim  appearance  of  a  house  to  which 
the  inmates  return  after  a  lengthy  absence,  and  in  which 
they  recognise  a  precision  of  arrangement  that  is  un- 
familiar, no  chairs  pulled  out  of  place,  no  books  and 
pipes  lying  about  untidily.  Having  nothing  else  that 
she  might  do,  Jeanne  had  busied  herself  in  removing  all 
traces  of  habitation  from  the  hall,  leaving  the  room  bare 
and  formal,  which,  had  she  had  her  way,  it  had  always 
been.  The  appearance  of  the  house,  I  say,  struck  me 
with  its  contrast  to  that  which  we  had  just  been  seeing, 
but  the  clock  upon  the  wall,  which  ticked  solemnly 
in  protest  against  all  hurry  and  excitement,  brought  me 
a  greater  astonishment,  for  it  marked  some  minutes 
short  of  eleven;  all  our  fighting,  all  our  waiting  and 
watching,  which  had  seemed  like  many  nights  in  one, 
had  filled  no  more  than  a  few  hours  of  the  evening. 
We  had  played  with  high  passions;  we  had  been  in 
company  with  death;  we  had  broken  the  common 
conduct  of  our  lives,  and  had  seen  the  world  in  different 
colours ;  and  it  was  not  yet  the  hour  for  bed. 

Whatever  had  been  her  anxiety  and  her  excitement, 

323 


324  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

Jeanne  was  very  soon  her  ordinary  self ;  no  one  directing 
her,  she  sorted  out  the  servants  from  their  masters, 
had  them  into  the  kitchen,  and  was  back  again  with 
wine  and  brandy;  then,  having  set  the  refreshment 
on  a  table,  she  came  to  where  Joan  sat. 

"Mademoiselle  will  drink  this,"  she  suggested,  of- 
fering some  compound  of  wine  and  hot  water  which 
she  had  prepared.  "Afterwards  there  will  be  much 
to  do.  Monsieur  Massingdale  and  poor  Monsieur 
Blinkson  need  attention." 

Joan  took  the  glass  and  drank  from  it,  thanking  Jeanne; 
although  she  looked  more  inclined  to  break  down  than 
to  work  again,  the  call  to  attend  on  the  sick  roused  all 
the  woman  in  her,  and  she  followed  Jeanne  from  the 
room  with  some  appearance  of  eagerness. 

Meanwhile  Tom,  Hendick,  and  I  went  up-stairs  to 
fetch  a  mattress  on  which  to  put  Blinkson,  who  was 
half  collapsed  and  in  no  condition  to  be  moved  farther 
than  was  necessary.  As  we  collected  bedclothes, 
Hendick  explained  how  he  had  passed  the  evening  in 
great  suspense,  not  liking  to  leave  the  house,  yet  loath- 
ing the  inaction;  how  he  had  gone  with  the  car  some 
way  towards  Cluny,  helping  to  get  it  up  the  hill ;  and  how, 
finally,  judging  by  the  noise  and  the  burning  chateau 
that  things  were  going  very  badly  with  us,  he  and 
Marellac  had  started  out  to  join  us,  and  had  been  over- 
taken by  the  soldiers. 

We  brought  the  bedding  down-stairs,  and  made 
Blinkson  as  comfortable  as  possible  upon  a  couple 
of  tables  drawn  together.  He  had  been  shot  in  the 
abdomen,  and  was  apparently  wounded  so  badly  that, 
had  there  been  skilful  aid  to  hand,  it  had  done  him  no 
good.  He  was  quite  conscious,  though  very  weak,  and 
he  talked  and  laughed  with  us,  refusing  to  listen  to  any 


Passing  of  a  Gallant  Gentleman      325 

words  of  pity,  although  he  knew  even  better  than  we 
did  that  he  was  a  dying  man.  Joan,  who  had  not  been 
used  to  such  sights  and  services,  helped  us  to  secure  his 
ease — secured  for  him,  would  be  a  truer  statement,  all 
the  ease  that  he  could  look  for — arranging  his  pillows, 
smoothing  the  clothes  about  his  neck,  in  such  fashion  as 
a  woman  does  by  instinct,  and  a  man  by  practice,  not 
so  well,  after  long  acquaintance  with  the  sick.  Then, 
when  she  could  do  no  more,  she  turned  to  Massingdale, 
who  sat  on  a  chair  near  the  fireplace,  where  he  had 
been,  silent  and  dazed,  since  we  entered  the  house. 

"I  want  to  dress  your  head  for  you,"  she  told  him, 
putting  down  the  basin  and  the  rough  bandages  that 
Jeanne  had  prepared. 

Massingdale  looked  up  stupidly,  making  an  attempt 
to  rise  from  his  chair. 

"I  'm  quite  fit,  Miss  Onnington,"  he  explained. 
"  Don't  bother  about  me. " 

Joan  pressed  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  so  that  he 
should  not  move,  smiling  at  him  as  a  woman  will  when 
she  tends  a  sick  man  or  a  child. 

"I  want  to  see  this  cut,"  said  she.  "You  mustn't 
move.  I  shall  hurt  you,  because  I  'm  very  clumsy." 

Yet  her  hands  were  light  and  tender,  and  her  touch, 
by  the  look  of  it,  scarcely  to  be  felt,  as  she  bathed  his 
matted  hair. 

"It 's  very  good  of  you  to  take  so  much  trouble," 
answered  Massingdale,  trying  to  rouse  himself.  "That 
stone  knocked  me  half  silly.  I  can't  talk  much. " 

"I  don't  want  you  to  talk,"  Joan  replied  very  softly, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  her  lips  trembled.  "I  want 
to  bathe  your  head  for  you." 

Massingdale  did  not  answer.  His  head  rested  against 
the  back  of  the  chair  and  his  eyes  stared  dully,  and  with 


326  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

no  expression  in  them,  at  the  ceiling.  Joan  bent  over 
her  work  so  that  I  could  not  see  her  face.  When  she 
had  finished,  she  mixed  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water 
and  brought  it  to  Massingdale  to  drink,  smoothing  the 
bandage  that  she  had  tied  about  his  head  as  he  took 
the  glass.  Then  she  left  him  and  came  back  to  Blinkson. 

I  sat  beside  him.  Although  for  the  most  part  he  lay 
silent  with  closed  eyes,  he  seemed  anxious  that  some  one 
should  be  near  him.  Joan  put  a  hand  on  his  forehead, 
and  he  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled. 

"Better?  "she  asked. 

"  I  've  got  beyond  the  better  stage  of  life, "  he  answered, 
his  voice  very  weak.  "I  am  in  that  condition  when  a 
medical  man  would  permit  me  anything  for  which  I  had 
a  fancy.  I  'm  not  afraid,  Miss  Onnington,  to  look  this 
particular  truth  in  the  face. " 

"Oh,"  cried  Joan,  as  if  the  thing  frightened  her, 
"  you  must  not  talk  like  that !  You  will  get  well  again. " 

"I  shall  be  rid  of  this  particular  ill  and  many  others 
pretty  soon,  I  fancy,"  he  answered,  with  some  return 
to  his  old  manner.  Then  he  felt  for  Joan's  hand  and 
held  it.  "Let  us  change  the  subject,"  he  continued. 
"I  should  like  to  think,  Miss  Onnington,  that  the  real 
impression  that  you  got  of  me,  gained  in  our  first  meet- 
ing, has  been  somewhat  obscured  by  to-night's  events. 
I  should  not  like  you  to  think  of  me  as  I  really  am." 

Joan  knelt  beside  him,  and  her  voice  was  low  and 
broken  as  she  spoke. 

"You  must  not  say  things  like  that,"  she  entreated. 
"You  must  not  think  them.  I  see  you  as  you  really 
are — a  very  brave  man  who  gave  his  life  to  save  me 
from  annoyance.  I  have  forgotten  all  about  the  other 
man.  Do  you  imagine  that  I  shall  think  of  him  when 
I  remember  that  you — you " 


Passing  of  a  Gallant  Gentleman      327 

"Died  is  the  word  you  want,"  replied  Blinkson;  "only 
you  should  not  weave  romance  around  me  because  you 
think  I  died  for  you.  I  am  no  more  than  a  very  un- 
desirable old  man  who  is  rather  glad  that  the  finish 
is  in  sight."  He  paused,  and  his  eyes  stared  into  some 
far  distance  wherein  he  seemed  to  see  things  that  were 
pleasant,  then  he  came  back  to  earth  again,  and  he 
smiled  as  he  looked  at  Joan.  "Think  of  me,"  he  asked, 
"as  kindly  as  you  can.  Don't  try  to  forget  the  faults. 
If  you  cannot  manage  to  take  the  bad  with  the  good, 
you  have  a  lot  of  loneliness  before  you.  I  believe  that 
you  will  escape  that — that  you  will  be  able  to  love  and 
understand.  The  one  is  certain  to  fail  without  the 
other." 

He  closed  his  eyes  again,  letting  go  Joan's  hand, 
seeming  suddenly  sunk  in  forgetfulness.  Quite  plainly, 
although  his  mind  worked  clearly,  he  was  slipping  the 
moorings  that  held  him  to  life  and  all  other  affairs  kept 
little  hold  on  his  attention  in  view  of  the  unknown 
voyage  ahead.  Since  he  seemed  comfortable  and  did 
not  move,  Joan  left  him  and  joined  Tom  and  De  Me*nil- 
lart,  who  talked  with  Hendick  and  Loissel. 

Very  shortly  afterwards  the  car  arrived  back  from 
Cluny,  having  come  by  the  road  through  Donzy  and 
Az6,  and  with  it  came  another  motor  and  Captain 
Monet.  The  soldiers,  less  than  half  of  whom,  it  appeared, 
we  had  met,  had  dispersed  the  strikers  after  making 
many  arrests,  had  failed  to  save  anything  of  the  chateau, 
and  were  taking  steps  to  ensure,  so  far  as  they  were 
able,  that  the  district  should  witness  no  more  violence. 
The  excellent  captain  was  in  high  good-humour, although 
careful  to  maintain  an  appropriate  gravity  of  demeanour. 
He  paid  us  all  many  compliments;  congratulated  Tom 
upon  his  management  of  the  affair;  and  allowed  us  to 


328  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

perceive  that  we  were  fortunate  in  having  been  rescued 
by  an  officer  named  Monet.  After  explaining  that 
he  would  spend  the  night  on  duty,  and  that  those  who 
remained  behind  need  not  anticipate  further  incon- 
venience, he  urged  that  the  two  cars  should  be  filled  at 
once,  as  Madame  de  Me"nillart  awaited  their  return  with 
a  very  natural  anxiety.  Accordingly  it  was  arranged 
that  the  women  servants  should  ride  in  the  Vicomte's 
car,  and  that  the  other  and  larger  motor  should  take 
Tom,  Joan,  and  De  M6nillart  himself.  There  was  no 
possible  reason  why  they  should  not  start  immediately. 
All  that  they  might  wish  to  do  at  La  Fontaine  des  Bois 
could  be  done  the  next  day,  and  so  without  more  delay 
they  prepared  to  start.  Tom  made  an  attempt  to  induce 
Massingdale  to  go  with  them,  but  it  was  unsuccessful,  as 
I  had  imagined  that  it  would  be.  Therefore,  when 
everything  was  ready  for  them  to  leave,  they  came  to 
where  Blinkson  lay  and  said  good-bye  to  him.  De 
Me*nillart  and  Tom  shook  hands  with  the  dying  man  in 
silence,  and  I  think  that  he  understood  the  thoughts 
which  they  could  not  express,  for  his  eyes  lighted  as 
if  he  were  well  content.  To  Joan  he  spoke,  holding 
her  hand  between  his  own. 

"Good-bye,"  said  he,  all  the  huskiness  gone  from 
his  speech.  "  Don't  waste  your  pity  on  me,  Miss  Onning- 
ton,"  for  she  was  more  moved  than  I  had  often  seen 
her.  "There  is  no  pity  in  my  death.  I  had  to  die  some- 
time, you  know.  Just  as  well  now.  Rather  a  good 
finish — better  than  I  expected.  Good-night. " 

She  waited  a  moment,  looking  at  him  very  sadly. 
For  the  last  time  she  smoothed  the  sheet  about  his 
neck,  then  turned  quickly  and  hurried  out  of  the  house. 

Massingdale  and  I  went  to  the  door  to  see  the  car 
depart,  and  I  noticed  that  Joan  did  not  look  in  our 


Passing  of  a  Gallant  Gentleman     329 

direction  until  the  motor  began  to  move,  and  that  when 
she  turned  to  us  she  looked  at  Massingdale  with  some- 
thing of  fear  in  her  expression.  He  leaned  against  the 
wall,  haggard  and  weary,  like  a  man  who  wakes  from 
troubled  sleep  to  find  new  difficulties  and  sorrows  about 
him,  and  he  stared  after  the  car  until  it  disappeared 
into  the  night. 

After  some  discussion,  in  which  all  our  arguments 
against  his  watching  failed  to  move  Massingdale  from 
his  intention,  we  left  him  and  Hendick  to  sit  with 
Blinkson,  and  the  rest  of  us  went  to  bed,  Loissel  and  I 
lying  upon  mattresses  in  the  dinine-room.  I  slept 
heavily  until  three  o'clock,  when  it  had  been  arranged 
I  should  take  Hendick's  place.  Upon  going  into  the 
hall  I  found  Blinkson  dozing,  death's  stamp  already  on 
his  face,  and  Massingdale  seated  at  his  side  with  papers 
spread  before  him  on  a  table. 

"You  might  witness  this,"  he  said,  handing  me  a 
pen.  "  Blinkson  has  made  a  will. " 

I  took  up  the  paper,  and  glanced  through  it.  The 
name  that  was  upon  it  I  did  not  know,  but  Massingdale 
explained  the  change  before  I  could  mention  it. 

"He  took  the  name  of  Athanasius  Roderick  Blinkson 
because,  as  he  told  us  a  little  time  ago,  it  was  a  suitable 
title  for  a  fool.  He  explains  the  alias  farther  on.  I 
think  that  you,  Hendick,  and  I  are  the  only  men  who 
know  what  his  real  name  is.  We  keep  it  to  ourselves." 

I  saw  that  the  document  was  sufficiently  in  order  to 
stand,  that  it  was  chiefly  in  favour  of  Massingdale 
himself,  and  that,  besides  the  bequest  of  a  ring  to  the 
dying  man's  sister  in  England,  it  provided  for  the  giving 
of  some  memento,  to  be  chosen  by  Massingdale,  to 
"each  of  my  companions  on  the  night  of  my  death, 
if  they  care  to  accept  the  same."  He  had  been,  it 


33°  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

seemed  clear,  a  very  lonely  man,  for  besides  ourselves, 
chance  acquaintances  of  his  last  years,  his  sister  was 
the  only  person  of  whom  he  made  any  mention.  I 
witnessed  the  will,  and  put  it  down,  turning  to  the  man 
whose  last  wishes  it  expressed.  He  lay  very  still,  breath- 
ing heavily,  his  face  showing  little  sign  of  pain,  and  in 
its  mortal  pallor  more  dignified  than  I  had  seen  it. 

I  took  my  place  beside  Massingdale,  and  together 
we  watched  for  the  end,  not  thinking  it  necessary  to 
summon  the  others  to  be  with  us.  For  a  long  time 
he  remained  still,  sleeping;  then  he  roused  himself  and 
complained  of  the  cold.  We  put  more  blankets  over 
him,  for  which  he  thanked  us.  Once  he  wandered  in  his 
talk,  calling  out  some  woman's  name;  but  he  soon  came 
to  consciousness  again,  and  lay  with  his  eyes  open. 
Again  he  spoke  of  the  cold,  and  as  we  made  efforts  to 
warm  him,  lighting  the  fire  although  the  night  was  hot, 
he  talked  quite  coherently. 

"I  feel  like  a  gentleman  again,"  he  informed  us. 
"  Drink  and  a  certain  fastidiousness  go  badly  together. " 
Then,  after  a  pause:  "I  Ve  had  no  worse  a  time  than 
many  men."  Finally,  very  softly,  as  if  to  himself: 
"  What  next,  I  wonder?  " 

After  that  he  dozed  again,  sometimes  opening  his 
eyes  to  look  at  us,  and,  if  he  met  our  glances,  smiling. 
About  ten  minutes  before  five,  when  for  some  time  he 
had  been  still,  he  seemed  to  stretch  himself,  a  long 
breath  came  from  him,  and  so  he  died. 

We  remained  many  minutes  silent;  Loissel,  who 
had  come  into  the  room  very  quietly  some  little  time 
before  the  end,  standing  at  the  dead  man's  feet,  his 
great,  shaggy  head  hung  forward,  his  tall  form  upright. 
Then  Massingdale  stood  up,  passed  a  hand  across  his 
eyes,  and  walked  to  the  door. 


Passing  of  a  Gallant  Gentleman      331 

"  My  God, "  said  he,  "  I  'm  tired. " 

Thereupon  he  opened  the  door,  stepped  out  into  the 
road,  and  lifted  his  head  to  feel  the  cool  wind  blow 
on  it.  The  dawn  had  already  broken,  the  birds  were 
chattering,  there  was  a  light  grey  cloud  over  the  sky, 
and  the  morning  air  was  fresh  and  sweet.  Loissel 
covered  the  face  of  the  dead,  arranged  the  papers 
which  were  lying  untidily  on  the  table,  and  joined 
Massingdale  outside.  I  followed  him. 

As  we  stood  together,  listening  to  the  small,  quiet 
sounds  about,  thinking  of  the  cheery  kind  companion 
whose  death  we  had  just  watched,  there  came  to  disturb 
us  the  sound  of  a  trotting  horse.  A  few  minutes  after- 
wards a  gig  came  round  the  bend  of  the  road,  and  one 
of  the  doctors  from  Cluny,  Rolin,  a  round,  red-faced, 
comfortable  little  man,  several  times  previously  our 
guest,  never  until  this  moment  our  medical  attendant, 
drove  up  to  the  door. 

"Impossible  to  get  here  before,"  he  cried,  saluting  us. 
"Been  in  trouble,  I  hear.  Silly  lot  of  fools  in  these 
parts.  Where  's  my  patient?" 

He  was  out  of  the  trap,  and  across  the  threshold 
before  he  had  finished;  then,  as  he  saw  the  candle-lit 
room  with  that  which  it  contained,  he  made  a  clucking 
sound  with  his  tongue,  and  hurried  forward  to  the  body. 
We  waited  outside  while  he  conducted  his  examination 
and  in  a  few  minutes  he  joined  us. 

"Hopeless  from  the  start,"  he  stated.  "If  I  had 
arrived  before,  I  could  have  done  no  good.  Not  much 
suffering  in  such  a  death,  hemorrhage  is  kind  in  that 
way.  I  will  come  later  and  conduct  the  usual  post- 
mortem. The  authorities  will  require  it."  He  rubbed 
his  hands  together,  looked  at  the  sky,  then  tapped 
Massingdale  on  the  arm.  "I  '11  stitch  up  that  head 


332  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

of  yours,"  he  announced.  "I  hear  you  have  cracked  it. 
Good  thing  for  modern  art  the  stone  was  n't  a  bit 
heavier.  Now,  rouse  that  good  woman  of  yours,  and 
we  '11  get  to  work. " 

We  found  Jeanne  about  to  begin  the  new  day's 
business  and  a  very  few  minutes  afterwards  she  had 
what  Rolin  required  laid  out  in  the  studio.  The  little 
doctor  worked  quickly,  saying  little  until  he  had  fin- 
ished; but  when  the  bandages  had  been  fixed  to  his 
satisfaction,  he  faced  the  three  of  us  with  an  air  of 
command. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "I  have  to  deal  with  moderately 
sensible  men.  Birth  comes  and  death  comes — I  have 
seen  them  both  to-night,  with  a  short  half -hour  drive 
dividing  them — and  each  of  them  is  surprising  in  its 
way;  but  after  the  one  and  until  the  other  comes  a 
man  has  his  duty  by  his  own  body.  I  have  seldom," 
he  surveyed  us  fiercely,  "seen  three  sorrier-looking 
scarecrows.  You  have  got  to  change  that,  my  friends. 
Go  off  and  get  some  sleep — I  '11  stop  a  bit  and  help 
your  woman — but,  if  you  pitch  me  any  nonsense  about 
being  unable  to  rest,  I  '11  have  done  with  the  lot  of  you 
for  three  hysterical  fools." 

We  offered  no  opposition  to  his  commands ;  we  turned 
in,  and  slept,  all  three  of  us  I  think,  dreamlessly  and 
without  turning  on  our  beds.  Nature  has  her  soft 
moods,  and  of  sleep,  the  kindliest  gift  that  she  has, 
she  is  not  always  miserly. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE   PARTING  OF  MANY  WAYS 

OVER  the  events  of  the  next  few  days  I  will  not  linger. 
When  I  recall  the  weeks  that  I  lived  with  Massing- 
dale  in  his  house  at  La  Fontaine  des  Bois,  I  dwell  long  in 
thought  among  the  quiet  days  that  went  before  the 
strike,  and  over  the  fighting  itself  I  do.  not  hurry,  even 
at  Blinkson's  death  I  often  pause,  but  of  the  final  days 
of  our  stay  I  do  not  care  to  think;  that  retrospect  has 
too  much  of  gloom  about  it,  and  in  reviewing  it  I  find 
neither  pleasure  nor  profit.  The  ceremonies  subsequent 
to  death  are  to  most  men,  I  suppose,  purely  distasteful ; 
the  hired  workmen  about  the  house,  whose  melancholy 
profession  it  is  to  arrange  burial,  the  unnatural  air  of 
repression,  and  the  numerous  occasions  on  which  the 
deceased  person  is  made  the  subject  of  unwilling  con- 
versation, bring  to  the  healthy  mind  revolt  and  anger. 
If  there  is  any  sorrow  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  await 
the  burial  of  their  dead  fellow,  it  becomes  an  intolerable 
burden  that  they  should  be  compelled  to  discuss  the 
cause  of  their  grief  with  strangers  and  officials;  and, 
giving  small  heed  to  their  necessity,  they  are  inclined 
to  cry  out  that  these  long  formalities  are  no  better  than 
needless  cruelty  to  the  living.  With  such  things,  with 
inquests  and  inquiries,  with  the  coming  and  going  of 
many  unknown  persons,  all  seeking  information  and 

333 


334  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

asking  that  the  same  sad  tale  might  be  retold,  we  were 
constantly  engaged;  two  dead  men,  both  come  to  their 
end  by  violent  means,  lay  beneath  our  roof,  and  we 
were  set  about  by  a  swarm  of  officials  who  gave  us  little 
peace. 

Two  days  after  his  death  the  widow  Dupont  came, 
with  relations  and  friends  and  much  attendant  pomp, 
to  take  the  body  of  her  husband  to  the  village  where 
he  had  lived;  I  can  only  hope  that  we  behaved  on  that 
occasion  in  a  fit  and  proper  manner,  for  beneath  the 
pride  of  notoriety,  which  the  circumstances  seemed  to 
have  conferred  upon  her,  I  believe  that  Madame  Dupont 
nursed  a  real  sorrow.  The  following  morning  we  took 
Blinkson  to  his  grave.  He  lies  in  a  corner  of  the  little 
churchyard  at  La  Verzee,  and  no  tombstone  marks  his 
resting-place.  We  who  had  known  something,  but  very 
little,  of  his  life,  and  the  others,  Tom,  Joan,  De  Menillart, 
and  certain  of  the  servants,  who  had  known  only  the 
gallant  manner  of  his  death,  stood  by  his  graveside; 
and,  since  he  had  so  expressed  his  wish  in  the  will  that 
he  had  made,  no  ritual  of  religion  was  used  when  we 
made  him  our  farewell.  So  we  left  him  to  lie  among 
the  quiet  Burgundian  hills,  to  rest  after  a  losing  battle. 
What  his  story  was  I  do  not  know;  why  a  life  that  had 
opened  with  so  much  promise  had  failed  in  its  achieve- 
ment, I  have  made  no  effort  to  find  out;  but  this  I  do 
know,  of  this  at  least  I  am  convinced,  he  did  no  harm 
to  any  but  himself,  and  if  laughter  when  the  heart  is 
sad,  if  kindness  that  does  not  waver,  that  is  not  a  thing 
of  moods,  be  reckoned,  as  they  must  be,  among  man's 
virtues,  he  was  a  better  man  than  others  of  more  seemly 
living.  He  had  learned  to  be  alone,  a  bitter  lesson;  he 
listened  with  laughing  sympathy  to  the  tale  of  our  woes 
and  sorrows,  he  encouraged  our  hopes  and  our  ambitions, 


The  Parting  of  Many  Ways        335 

yet  he  never  sought  to  share  the  burden  of  his  own  load 
with  others,  rather  choosing  to  go  his  way  in  solitude. 
Let  this,  then,  be  his  epitaph :  He  gave,  and  he  did  not 
take.  The  wrong,  and  the  shame,  and  the  waste  of  his 
life  were  very  great,  yet  they  are  easily  forgotten  by 
those  who  knew  him,  because  of  the  laughter  and  the 
happiness  that  at  all  times  followed  him.  He  went 
to  his  death  deprived  of  all  his  heritage,  exiled,  yet  with- 
out whining  at  his  fate;  that  we  shall  think  of  him  as 
of  an  honoured  friend,  remembering  with  shame  those 
times  at  which  we  slighted  him,  will  be,  I  fancy,  the 
treatment  that  he  would  have  asked.  May  he  rest — 
in  forgetfulness. 

Joan  and  Tom  left  Cluny  for  Paris  the  same  day  that 
Blinkson  was  buried;  the  Vicomte  remained  a  couple 
of  days  later,  very  much  occupied  with  his  affairs, 
estimating  damage,  which  was  great.  Then  he  too 
left,  and  we  were  alone  again;  but  the  spell  of  the  place 
was  broken,  leaving  us,  also,  anxious  to  be  gone.  When 
the  last  of  the  inquiries  was  finished,  we  took  our  depar- 
ture with  little  delay:  Hendick  went  first,  straight 
to  England;  Loissel  and  I  followed,  making  for  Paris, 
the  former  taking  with  him  the  picture  now  entitled 
La  Femme;  finally,  but  a  full  fortnight  later,  Massing- 
dale,  Vanne,  and  Marellac  made  their  farewells  to  the 
farmhouse  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so  many  different 
happenings. 

The  strike  hardly  survived  its  victims.  The  authori- 
ties acted  with  an  unaccustomed  firmness,  and  after  one 
or  two  minor  disturbances  the  agitation  ceased.  Ritaud, 
who  had  been  badly  wounded  in  the  leg  by  Massing- 
dale's  shot,  was  proved  guilty  of  murdering  Dupont, 
and  duly,  and  very  expeditiously,  if  the  report  be  correct, 
guillotined.  I  heard  of  his  punishment  with  some 


336  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

satisfaction.  The  whole  affair  was  advertised  for  a 
short  while  in  the  papers,  was  made  the  subject  of  a 
certain  amount  of  talk,  and  was  very  soon  forgotten. 

The  last  act  which  we  played  in  the  farmhouse 
was  very  much  as  many  of  the  earlier  ones,  save  that 
it  lacked  one  player.  We  had  explained  our  departure 
to  Jeanne,  who  showed  no  surprise;  we  had  the  house 
somewhat  dismantled  and  many  of  our  things  packed, 
for  Hendick  went  early  the  next  day,  and  Loissel  and 
I  followed  the  same  evening;  and  we  sat,  after  dinner, 
in  the  studio,  for  we  had  taken  a  distaste  for  the  hall. 
The  conversation  turned,  as  it  was  bound  to  do,  upon 
the  disbanding  of  the  company;  we  had  grown  to  such 
intimacy  together  that  the  occasion  of  this  parting 
could  not  be  passed  by  in  silence. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Hendick,  leaning  back  in  his  chair 
and  staring  at  the  ceiling,  "whether  we  shall  all  sleep 
together  again  under  the  same  roof.  I  imagine  that  it 's 
rather  unlikely.  Even  Massingdale  may  become  a 
busy  man  in  course  of  time. " 

"The  odds  are  against  it,  against  the  sleeping  together, 
I  mean,"  I  allowed.  "We  ought  to  meet,  though. 
Gather  in  Paris  once  a  year.  Eat  a  commemorative 
dinner  together." 

"How  the  man  makes  a  god  of  his  belly!"  laughed 
Massingdale.  "Although  gastronomic — shame  on  me ! — 
because,  rather,  it  is  gastronomic,  the  idea  is  a  good  one.  I 
will  spend  my  brilliant  and  lonely  youth  seeking  new 
cooks.  Each  year  you  shall  gather  at  some  unknown  re- 
staurant, there  to  criticise  the  genius  of  some  obscure 
prince  of  chefs.  Men  will  watch  our  yearly  meeting  with 
anxious  hearts  and  mouths  that  water  in  anticipation; 
when  we  shall  have  set  the  seal  of  our  patronage  upon  an 
eating-house,  however  small,  the  world  will  flock  there, 


The  Parting  of  Many  Ways         337 

confident  of  its  excellence.  Already,  in  fancy,  the  laurels 
are  about  my  brow;  I  hear  men  speak  of  me  with  awe. 
'Excellent  man,'  they  say,  'he  could  not  paint,  but  he 
had  the  nicest  taste  in  cooking.'  It  is  enough,  mon 
Richard." 

Loissel  chuckled;  it  always  pleased  him  when  Mas- 
singdale  talked  nonsense. 

"My  part  shall  be  to  house  you,  my  friends,"  said  he. 
"Any  of  you,  all  of  you,  who  care  to  come  to  me  shall 
be  provided  with  beds,  other  devices  for  comfortable 
living,  and  any  quantity  of  the  good  caporal  tobacco, 
which  you  hate." 

"I,"  cried  Vanne,  twirling  his  moustaches,  "will  search 
all  Paris  for  musicians,  that,  after  we  have  eaten,  they 
may  make  divine  music  for  us. " 

"And  I,"  began  Marellac,  "shall  criticise- 
But  Massingdale  interrupted  him. 

"You,"  he  announced,  "will  fast,  my  son.  You  will 
do  nothing  else  but  make  us  the  divinest  music  of  them 
all;  the  other  players,  poor  devils,  will  mouth,  and  gnaw 
their  nails,  their  beautiful  long  nails,  when  you  have 
played." 

Marellac  grinned,  well  pleased;  and  I  turned  to 
Hendick. 

"You  and  I, "  I  suggested,  "having  nothing  else  to  do, 
will  overeat  ourselves. " 

To  which  he  cheerfully  agreed. 

In  such  manner  we  arranged  for  many  dinners  that 
have  never  yet  been  served. 

Then  Massingdale,  who  since  the  strike  had  seemed 
ill  and  depressed,  extravagant  in  his  talk  when  he  spoke, 
but  more  silent  than  usual,  called  for  more  foolishness. 
His  face,  beneath  the  turban  of  bandages,  showed  thin 
and  white,  but  his  eyes  were  alight  with  laughter,  and 


338  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

his  excitement  ran  high,  as  it  often  did  without  apparent 
cause  or  reason. 

" Mon  plre,"  he  cried,  addressing  Loissel,  "lift  up 
the  veil  of  the  future  for  us;  show  us  the  hidden  years. 
Speak  of  our  destinies;  forecast  both  triumph  and  defeat, 
joy  and  sorrow.  We  part  to-morrow;  give  us  a  stirrup- 
cup  upon  our  journey,  and  see  that  it  is  not  bitter. 
Silence,  loved  companions,  the  old  man  speaks." 

Loissel  waved  his  pipe,  assumed  an  air  of  prodigious 
solemnity,  and  dropped  his  voice  to  its  deepest  tone. 
He  greatly  enjoyed  a  farce. 

"I  see,"  he  announced,  "a  grave  and  learned  gentle- 
man, clothed  in  beautiful  scarlet  and  ermine,  wearing  a 
full-bottomed  wig — a  judge  of  law  and  of  men,  famed 
for  his  dignity.  His  name  is  Crutchley. " 

We  applauded  this  wonderful  foresight. 

"I  see,"  he  continued,  "two  men  walking  on  the 
boulevards,  passing  the  Theatre  of  the  Vaudeville;  one 
is  a  professor,  greatly  esteemed,  world-famed  for  his 
impassioned  teaching  on  the  subject  of  sociology;  the 
other  is  an  impresario  with  a  long  black  beard,  not  a 
slight  man,  who  talks  eagerly  and  with  much  gesticula- 
tion. They  speak  of  the  coming  visit  to  Paris  of  a 
violinist  who  holds  tears  and  laughter  at  his  command. 
They  discuss  arrangements  for  protecting  this  great 
musician  from  the  too  ardent  adoration  of  his  audience. 
Is  that  good?" 

We  said  that  it  was. 

"Lastly,"  he  went  on,  smiling  beneath  his  beard,  "I 
see  a  man  of  middle  height,  dignified,  well  clothed  and 
fed;  he  has  the  appearance  of  a  person  of  great  distinc- 
tion. He  walks  in  the  galleries  of  the  Louvre,  on  Monday 
when  the  public  may  not  enter,  and  if  he  encounter 
any  official  he  receives  a  very  careful  salute.  His  air 


The  Parting  of  Many  Ways        339 

of  criticism  is  very  strong;  he  looks  at  the  great  works 
about  him,  seeing  all  their  faults.  Finally,  he  halts 
in  front  of  a  sea-scape,  a  poor  thing  in  such  a  company ; 
his  face  is  full  of  pity  that  would  hide  contempt.  Be- 
neath the  picture  there  is  the  usual  plate;  besides  the 
title  it  bears  the  name  Jean  S6bastien  Loissel,  with  two 
dates  following:  1840-19 " 

Massingdale  sprang  from  his  chair,  shouting. 

"Stop!"  he  roared.     "Don't  say  it.     Don't  say  it." 

Loissel  leading  us,  we  rocked  with  laughter.  I  had  not 
before  discovered  Massingdale  to  be  superstitious,  and 
the  circumstance  pleased  me  immensely.  He,  however, 
insisted  that  we  were  the  fools,  not  he;  in  his  curious 
nature,  guided  more  than  most  men  by  its  emotions, 
certain  prejudices,  suspicions,  fears,  ruled  very  strongly. 
That  any  one  should  name  the  date  of  his  own  death 
was,  it  appeared,  a  thing  he  could  not  hear  in  silence. 

"I  '11  have  nothing  of  your  future,"  he  told  Loissel, 
when  our  laughter  had  subsided.  "  I  despise  it.  Dignity, 
you  say!  Learning!  Distinction,  prosperity,  position! 
Away  with  the  lot  of  them.  What  have  we  to  do  with 
such  things.  I,  sir,  decline  to  walk  in  the  Louvre,  de- 
spising my  masters  and  the  great  dead.  Moreover, 
although  they  advance  white-waistcoated  stomachs 
before  the  eyes  of  all  men,  I  will  not  even  drink  with 
your  abominable  old  men.  Let  them  get  to  their  clubs 
or  their  favourite  cafes,  among  their  pompous  and 
absurd  companions.  The  judge — mon  Dieu!  I  can 
picture  him,  making  bad  jokes  upon  the  bench,  and  boring 
his  unhappy  associates  in  private  life.  And  a  pedagogue 
with  an  impresario!  If  this  is  to  happen,  then  let  the 
heavens  fall  about  me;  roll  up,  O  sea,  engulf  me  in  your 
cool  depths,  I  have  no  further  use  for  life.  By  Bacchus, 
by  the  laughing  nymphs,  by  all  that  is  foolish  and 


34°  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

pleasant,  I  could  extract  a  more  amusing  future  from  a 
gipsy  at  a  fair !" 

Loissel  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  so  that  it  creaked 
beneath  his  weight;  drew  at  his  pipe  until  it  gurgled 
comfortably ;  and  solemnly  shook  his  head  at  our  excited 
host. 

"  So,  young  man, "  said  he,  "  you  do  not  wish  to  become 
respectable  and  famous;  you  despise  an  honoured  old 
age;  and  you  would  not  have  your  friends  men  of  sub- 
stance and  standing. " 

"Let  all  the  great  gods  be  my  witness,"  cried 
Massingdale,  "I  would  not!  If  fame  is  to  come,  we 
will  welcome  it;  if  prosperity,  we  '11  not  refuse  it;  but 
in  youth,  in  maturity,  and  in  our  declining  years,  may 
we  avoid  respectability,  encourage  folly,  and  be  the 
constant  companions  of  all  that  is  irresponsible.  I  like 
one  thing — only  one  thing — about  your  absurd  prophecy." 

"I  am  saved,  then,"  sighed  Loissel,  "from  absolute 
disgrace.  What  is  the  one  good  point  that  I  have 
made?" 

"Marellac,"  answered  Massingdale.  "To  him  you 
gave  a  human  r61e — exactly  the  one  that  he  will  play. 
Picture  him  well  on  in  years,  long-haired,  in  very  good 
conceit.  He  '11  stand,  after  his  concerts,  in  the  privacy 
of  his  own  lodging;  he  will  wear  a  smile  of  tender  re- 
membrance; and  he  will  seriously  affirm  that  'these 
women  are  the  devil,  although,  poor  little  dears,  they 
have  every  excuse. '  Marellac,  my  infant  prodigy,  they 
will  adore  you;  weep  on  you;  sigh  for  you;  pester  you; 
comfort  you;  hate  each  other  for  you;  you  will  destroy 
the  happiness  of  quiet  homes;  distract  maidens  and 
matrons  of  all  ages;  make  innumerable  male  enemies; 
and — and,  you  sad-eyed  dreamer,  you  austere  child, 
you  will  enjoy  it  all. " 


The  Parting  of  Many  Ways         341 

The  boy  moved  uneasily,  coloured,  and  then  made 
answer,  his  tone  that  of  protest. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  told  Massingdale.  "I 
believe  that  you  were  serious  just  now  when  you  said 
that  you  did  not  want  respectability,  although  you 
laughed  as  you  spoke.  Why,  almost  in  the  same  breath, 
do  you  make  a  joke  of  the  things  which  you  hate?  I 
have  often  heard  you  rage  against  the  man  who  tries  to 
attract  women,  to  make  them  love  him,  to  amuse  him- 
self with  their  pain.  Why  do  you  say  these  things? 
You  do  not  mean  them." 

Vanne  smacked  his  hands  upon  his  thighs,  rolling  his 
eyes  at  the  ceiling. 

"But,"  he  cried,  "it  is  incredible!  The  little  imbecile 
asks,  very  seriously,  why  Massingdale  talks  nonsense. 
Why  does  the  moon  reflect  the  sun?  Why  does  a  mirror 
give  back  the  image  of  what  is  before  it?  Because  they 
must,  small  fool.  So  must  the  excellent  Massingdale 
give  forth  the  thought  that  is  at  the  moment  in  his 
mind. " 

This  was  so  good  a  summary  of  the  case  that  we 
heartily  applauded  it,  procuring  thereby  a  graceful  bow 
from  Vanne.  Massingdale,  however,  had  changed  his 
mood;  he  showed  suddenly  very  serious.  Standing 
with  his  back  to  the  empty  fireplace,  gesticulating 
freely,  seeming  very  convinced  of  his  point,  he  spoke. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked.  "Why  not  practise  what  I 
told  you  in  jest?  We  talk  of  honour,  morality,  right, 
yet  we  do  not  know  what  they  mean.  Why  not  follow 
where  our  passions  lead? — they  are  not  always  passing; 
win  where  we  can,  lose,  if  we  must;  love  a  hundred 
women  or  one,  as  the  mood  takes  us;  be  in  practice 
what  we  often  are  in  thought — animals.  If  love  is 
more  than  all  the  world  beside,  then  we  are  cowards 


342  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

to  allow  it  to  escape  so  lightly,  to  let  convention,  money, 
a  thousand  little  things,  stand  in  its  path;  if  it  is  not, 
if  it  is  a  passing  appetite  like  hunger  and  thirst,  a  thing 
easily  satisfied,  then  we  are  fools,  for  we  are  at  the  pains 
to  mate  together,  burdening  ourselves  with  solemn  vows. 
If  we  accept  a  compromise,  as  we  mostly  do,  making 
our  marriages  things  of  convenience  and  sober  sense, 
act  up  to  it.  Why  talk  of  faithfulness,  when  comfort 
and  satisfaction  are  the  only  aims?" 

He  stretched  out  his  hands,  demanding  the  reply 
which  he  did  not  get.  Instead,  Loissel  turned  to 
Marellac. 

"Get  out  your  riddle,"  he  suggested.  "Our  friend  is 
wild  to-night;  charm  him  to  earth  and  sober  sense 
again." 

Massingdale  making  no  attempt  to  force  a  continua- 
tion of  the  talk,  the  boy  played  to  us.  It  was  the  last 
time  for  many  years  that  I  heard  him,  except  on  the 
concert  platform,  and  he  made  the  music  that  he  always 
does  make,  wonderful,  magic,  sad  or  joyful,  as  he  wishes. 
He  gave  us  many  things,  all  of  them  simple  country 
airs,  old  songs,  of  distant  lands  and  times.  Finally, 
when  he  had  us  waiting  on  his  mood,  he  played  the 
Flowers  of  the  Forest.  He  showed  us  the  open  Scottish 
hills,  grey  and  wild;  he  sounded  the  far-off,  distant 
wail  of  pipes;  and  he  made  us  realise  that  men  had 
died,  that  hearts  were  broken,  that  bitter  sorrow  reigned 
alone. 

Some  minutes  after  he  had  ceased,  Massingdale  got 
up. 

"What  devil  of  melancholy  is  in  you  to-night?" 
said  he.  "Your  infernal  genius  and  your  dirges  have 
raised  the  past  about  us.  We  shall  sleep  with  memories 
of  dead  men  and  hopes  as  our  companions.  The  gods 


The  Parting  of  Many  Ways        343 

send  that,  when  you  get  older,  you  will  not  have  so 
great  an  affection  for  inducing  sadness." 

Very  shortly  afterwards,  still,  I  think,  with  the  spell 
of  Marellac's  music  on  us,  we  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   ATTITUDE  OF  AN  OLD  ARTIST 

I  HAD  already  been  too  long  away  from  home,  and  I 
only  stayed  four  days  in  Paris,  as  Loissel's  guest  in 
the  Boulevard  Haussmann.  During  that  time  I  repeated 
the  same  things  about  our  recent  adventures,  anybody 
who  called  being  certain  to  open  the  subject,  until  I 
had  developed  something  of  the  manner  of  the  pro- 
fessional guide,  and  finally  took  to  escaping  if  strangers 
made  their  appearance.  The  newspapers,  I  noticed, 
referred  to  Massingdale  as  a  young  artist  of  genius, 
when,  before  he  had  provided  them  with  copy,  they 
had  only  noticed  his  existence,  but  had  overlooked  the 
genius,  in  criticising  the  shows  where  he  exhibited; 
now,  however,  he  had  become  a  painter  "whose  forth- 
coming work  would  be  awaited  with  a  lively  and  con- 
fident anticipation."  I  take  it  the  advertisement  did 
him  no  harm. 

On  the  second  evening  of  my  stay  in  Paris,  Loissel 
invited  the  Onningtons  to  dinner;  they  were  going 
back  to  England  the  next  day,  Tom  being  anxious  to 
get  a  little  time  at  home  before  his  leave  was  finished. 
It  was  much  of  a  relief  to  be  with  people  who  knew  the 
facts  about  the  strike,  and  to  refer  to  the  matter,  if 
we  wished  to  do  so,  without  lengthy  explanations. 

While  we  were  still  at  table  Tom  put  a  certain  aspect 
344 


Attitude  of  an  Old  Artist  345 

of  the  affair  more  plainly  than  I  had  thought  of  it 
before. 

"If  you  come  to  think  of  it,"  said  he,  "we  owe  a 
good  bit  to  Massingdale;  but  for  him  we  should  have 
been  fairly  in  the  cart." 

"How  is  that?"  asked  Admiral  Onnington.  "You 
haven't  said  anything  about  it  until  now,  my  boy." 

Tom  laughed. 

"No,"  he  agreed;  "I  forgot  about  it.  I  believe  that 
the  others  did,  too.  Still,  the  soldiers  came  a  few  minutes 
after  we  most  needed  them;  about  ten  minutes,  I  should 
say,  before  it  would  have  been  too  late.  Massingdale — 
I  never  asked  him  much  about  it,  and  he  would  n't 
volunteer  anything — guessed  that  we  would  have 
somebody  watching  the  park  walls,  and  so,  rinding  that 
the  crowd  coming  in  his  direction  were  taking  a  short 
cut,  he  started  off  for  some  farm  or  other  to  find  a  horse. 
He  did  find  one,  and  took  it.  Then  he  rode  into  Donzy — 
I  think  that 's  the  name — got  on  the  telephone,  and 
rang  up  the  military.  He  seems  to  have  made  a  pretty 
hot  appeal,  for  they  turned  out  some  cavalry  at  once. 
After  that  he  came  as  hard  as  he  could  back  to  the  chateau. 
Supposing  that  the  man  we  sent  had  been  the  only  person 
to  warn  the  authorities — he  got  to  Cluny  after  the  soldiers 
had  started — a  good  many  of  us  would  now  be  keeping 
company  with  poor  old  Blinkson. " 

"If  that  is  the  case,"  said  I,  "it  looks  uncommonly 
like  our  owing  our  safety,  possibly  our  lives,  to  Massing- 
dale." 

"Something  of  that  sort, "  Tom  answered.  " He  came 
out  rather  well  that  night.  I  expected  him  to  be  far 
more  excited,  and  not  half  as  practical. " 

"Why?"  asked  Joan,  playing  with  her  bread. 

"  He  is  n't  exactly  a  slow-blooded  man, "  Tom  informed 


346  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

her;  "judging  by  his  ordinary  behaviour,  I  imagined 
that  he  would  be  pretty  nearly  wild. " 

"But,"  added  Admiral  Onnington,  "it  is  very  often 
your  excitable  man,  the  fellow  who  can  work  himself 
into  a  rage  over  ideas,  who  turns  cool  in  a  crisis." 

"I  won't  say  that  he  was  cool,"  replied  Tom.  "Did 
you  catch  sight  of  his  face  when  he  downed  that  red- 
headed beast  who  had  got  hold  of  you,  Joan?  He  was  n't 
cool  then;  I  never  saw  bloodshed  so  clear  in  a  man's 
eyes  before." 

Joan  shuddered;  she  was  in  no  danger,  I  imagine, 
of  forgetting  the  incident. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "It  was  awful.  I  don't  want 
to  think  of  it. " 

"Really,  Tom,"  admonished  my  aunt,  "you  should 
not  dwell  on  these  things.  It 's  terrible  to  think  that 
you  were  actually  killing  people. " 

"It  would  have  been  far  more  terrible — for  us — if  it 
had  been  the  other  way  about,"  he  answered  cheerfully. 

Here,  however,  Loissel  interposed  and  led  the  con- 
versation to  other  topics;  he  was  anxious,  it  appeared, 
to  avoid  further  discussion  of  Massingdale's  character. 

We  sat,  after  leaving  the  dinner  table,  in  the  room 
which  Loissel  used  as  a  studio,  for  the  flat  was  at  the 
top  of  the  building  where  roof-lighting  could  be  obtained. 
That  the  apartment  is  furnished  with  a  nice  regard 
for  effect,  is  no  matter  for  surprise;  that  it  is  exceedingly 
comfortable,  well  stocked  with  deep  chairs,  old  cabinets 
of  gracious  form,  books,  and  pictures,  beside  the  store 
of  artist's  implements,  is  what  those  who  know  the  owner 
would  expect;  that  the  place  is  a  sort  of  museum,  con- 
taining innumerable  relics  of  the  seas,  is  a  fact  with 
which  only  the  chief  intimates  of  the  old  painter  are 
acquainted.  It  is  a  maxim  of  his  that  any  one  who  acts 


Attitude  of  an  Old  Artist  347 

the  showman  of  his  own  possessions  stretches  friendship 
beyond  its  natural  limits.  He  would  as  soon  bring  forth 
one  of  his  treasures,  before  he  had  been  asked  to  do  so, 
as  he  would  refuse  to  help  a  struggling  artist;  that  he 
should  do  the  one  or  the  other  seems  to  me  inconceivable. 
If,  however,  he  entertains  guests  who  explore  his  collec- 
tion from  other  motives  than  misplaced  politeness,  I 
know  of  no  man  who  can  better  explain  the  histories,  all 
of  them  uncommon,  of  the  strange  mementoes  of  his 
wandering.  A  fat  volume  might  be  filled  with  their 
stories,  and  it  would  be  a  book  of  many  delights.  Bits 
of  spars,  blocks,  old  figure-heads;  minted  gold  that  has 
rested  long  beneath  the  sea;  carved  panels  from  tall 
ships  that  foundered  centuries  ago;  pistols,  swords, 
yellow  charts,  and  faded  log-books;  the  relics  of  sea- 
faring men  from  all  parts  of  the  world;  the  familiar 
objects  of  many  sailors  dead  and  gone:  all  these  are  to 
be  found  locked  in  his  cabinets,  stored  in  his  cases, 
hanging  upon  his  walls.  And  of  all  of  them  he  will  tell 
you  the  same  thing:  they  came  to  him  through  no  dealer's 
hands,  they  have  seen  no  shop  interior,  but  rested,  until 
he  found  them,  on  far-off  beaches,  floated  in  deep  waters, 
or  were  treasured,  uncomprehendingly,  by  natives  on 
whose  shores  the  sea  had  laid  them.  From  wreck  and 
storm  they  come,  and  were  scattered  far  and  wide,  on 
coral  reefs,  on  rugged  northern  foreshores,  until  a 
wandering  painter  picked  them  up,  to  lay  them  by 
against  the  time  when  his  voyaging  should  have  ceased, 
so  that  when  he  sat  at  home,  in  comfort,  he  might  still 
have  by  him  some  record  of  the  restless,  hungry  waters 
that  he  loved. 

Joan,  while  we  men  sat  still  in  decent  content  started 
wandering  round  the  room,  picking  things  up  and  asking 
Loissel  for  their  history;  presently  my  uncle  joined  her; 


348  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

then  Tom;  finally,  we  were  all  at  it  together.  Our  host, 
not  displeased,  I  fancy,  would  give  us  here  and  there  a 
piece  of  information:  how  he  had  found  one  thing  in 
the  China  Seas,  another  in  the  Mediterranean,  another 
in  the  Pacific  Isles.  About  one  object  only  did  he  speak 
at  any  length;  even  then,  it  would  appear,  he  was 
fearful  of  boring  us.  Joan  had  taken  from  a  cabinet, 
unlocked  to  satisfy  our  curiosity,  a  worn  and  faded 
volume,  the  log-book  of  the  Jane  Peters  of  Bristol. 

"That,"  said  Loissel,  seeing  her  handle  it,  "interests 
me  greatly.  I  found  it,  half-buried  in  sand,  on  one  of 
the  smallest  islands  of  the  Seychelle  group,  forty — no, 
forty-two  years  ago.  How  long  it  had  lain  there  I  can 
only  guess.  The  Jane  Peters  sailed  from  Bristol  the 
4th  May,  1751,  bound  for  India.  You  may  read  there 
the  record  of  the  voyage,  which  was  prosperous,  until 
she  had  left  Madagascar  some  days;  then  you  have  it 
recorded  that  she  found  bad  weather;  then — no  more. 
More  than  a  century  afterwards  I  find  her  log.  Francis 
Peters  was  her  master,  and  Jane,  it  is  probable,  his 
wife  or  daughter.  How  long  she  waited  for  his  return,  if 
she  did  wait,  hoping  that  no  news  might  be  good  news, 
I  cannot  learn;  yet  so  many  years  afterwards  I  find  out 
more  of  her  Francis  than  she  ever  came  to  know;  how  he 
sailed  on,  and  was  lost,  and  where  *the  sea  received  him. 
Oh,  but  I  have  many  dreams  that  I  can  dream  when  I 
sit  before  my  fire  with  these  wild  sea-gifts  about  me." 

We  studied  the  old  book  with  care ;  eyed  the  cramped 
and  faded  writing  with  something  touching  awe;  and 
had,  also,  our  dreams  of  the  Jane  Peters  as  she  dropped 
down  the  Avon  on  the  tide,  left  the  channel  behind  her, 
and  sailed  out  to  her  distant  doom.  Even  when  he 
filled  in  that  last  entry,  I  will  warrant,  Francis  Peters 
hoped  to  sight  the  Clifton  gorge  again. 


Attitude  of  an  Old  Artist          349 

After  that  we  left  the  relics  of  the  seas  alone,  fearful 
lest  we  should  happen  upon  something  of  smaller  interest 
and  so  spoil  a  fine  impression.  I  turned  the  talk  to  the 
subject  of  Loissel's  memoirs,  pages  of  which  I  had  seen; 
and  the  author  assured  us  that,  if  they  were  ever  finished 
and  appeared  in  print,  such  tales  as  that  of  the  Jane 
Peters  would  not  be  lacking  in  them.  Then,  when  we 
had  drifted  on  to  other  topics  once  again,  Loissel  got 
up  from  his  chair,  faced  us  from  the  hearth-rug,  and 
spoke  of  a  matter  that  had  been  some  time,  I  fancy, 
in  his  mind. 

"There  is,"  said  he,  "a  little  point  of  business  that 
I  would  speak  about.  I  break  a  confidence,  though  not 
my  word,  in  mentioning  it."  We  stared  at  him,  but  he 
continued  very  calmly.  "I  am,  however,  convinced  that 
I  do  right.  There  is  a  picture  that  I  would  show  you; 
a  picture,  a  very  great  picture,  by  my  pupil,  Louis 
Massingdale. " 

So  I  understood  what  he  was  about  to  show  us,  and 
wondered,  while  he  got  out  the  canvas,  what  his  object 
might  be.  He  placed  the  painting  on  an  easel;  arranged 
the  lights  about  it  so  that  it  might  be  seen  as  well  as 
possible,  then  took  his  stand  in  front  of  the  fire  again. 
"You  will  find  it, "  said  he,  "worth  looking  at. " 

I,  with  the  others  who  had  not  seen  it,  studied  the 
picture  for  some  seconds,  finding  new  beauties  in  it; 
then  I  turned  to  watch  Joan,  who  would  not,  I  imagined, 
fail  to  show  some  interest.  Her  colour  was  high,  her 
embarrassment  great,  her  interest  and  attention  fixed. 
There  is  not,  I  suppose,  a  woman,  nor  has  there  ever 
been,  who  could  feel  anger  when  a  painter,  even  though 
he  be  a  cast-off  lover,  shows  her  more  beautiful  than 
she,  in  fact,  appears;  when,  however,  this  same  painter 
leaves  his  subject's  features  as  he  finds  them,  exaggerat- 


35°  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

ing  nothing,  glossing  nothing,  and  founds  the  subtle 
changes  in  the  painted  face  upon  expression,  showing 
how  fuller  beauty  might  be  gained,  then  the  living 
woman,  discovering  many  points  that  her  mirror  daily 
misses,  adds  regret  to  her  satisfaction,  and,  perhaps, 
resentment,  carefully  hidden  lest  she  should  confess  her 
weaknesses,  to  her  regret.  That  Joan  was  both  in- 
terested and  embarrassed,  I  have  already  stated;  what 
her  feelings  were  beside  she  was  most  careful  to  hide 
from  us. 

Admiral  Onnington  spoke  the  first  comment ;  he  had 
scrutinised  the  painting  with  an  extreme  of  care,  going 
close  to  the  canvas,  then  standing  back  again. 

"I  am  absolutely  astonished,"  said  he,  making  use  of 
an  unwonted  precision.  "I  had  not  the  smallest  idea 
that  Massingdale  could,  or  ever  would,  do  anything  of 
that  sort." 

Tom  put  the  matter  with  a  greater  force. 

"Lord,"  he  announced,  "this  knocks  spots  off  his 
other  work!  It  ought  to  bring  in  most  of  the  adverse 
critics.  What  we  call  flattering  as  a  portrait,  is  n't  it?" 

Loissel  did  not  wait  for  other  opinions,  and  he  made 
no  reply  to  the  two  that  had  been  offered;  he  looked 
at  us  all  as  if  he  sought  our  attention  rather  than  our 
admiration. 

"I  was  asked,"  he  explained,  "to  house  this  picture. 
Massingdale's  wish  was  that  I  should  not  show  it  to 
any  one.  But  you  see  it  now,  my  friends;  thereby  I 
have  disobeyed  his  wish  and  brought  you  some  em- 
barrassment." He  paused,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
spread  wide  his  hands.  "I  have  a  reason, "  he  continued. 
"I  am  aware  of  what  is  past;  I  know  that  you  think  of 
him  as  a  man  who  has  committed  a  dishonourable,  an 
unpardonable  act ;  yet  I  show  you  this  painting,  guess- 


Attitude  of  an  Old  Artist  351 

ing,  perhaps,  something  of  your  feelings,  and  I  ask  you 
to  urge,  very  strongly,  that  it  should  be  exhibited  in 
public." 

He  turned  to  Admiral  Onnington,  and  seemed  to 
wait  for  his  reply. 

"I  am  afraid,"  answered  my  uncle,  somewhat  stiffly, 
"that  I  do  not  see  the  necessity  for  that.  I  cannot 
understand  why  you  should  expect  us  to  urge  the 
matter." 

"I  ask  you,"  returned  Loissel,  "because,  unless  you 
do  express  your  willingness  to  see  this  picture  exhibited, 
I  am  much  afraid  that  it  will  not,  for  some  years,  in 
any  case,  be  shown  to  the  public. " 

"But,  Monsieur  Loissel,"  argued  my  aunt,  "that 
question  should  surely  be  settled  by  Mr.  Massingdale 
himself.  You  must  see  that  any  exhibition  of  this 
picture  would  cause  my  daughter  a  great  deal  of  un- 
pleasantness;  all  the  unfortunate  talk  that  went  about 
before  would  start  again.  I  cannot  think  that  this 
picture  ought  to  have  been  painted,  and  I  am  sure  that 
Mr.  Massingdale  would  keep  it  from  public  view,  as 
you  suggest,  for  some  years,  if  he  were  asked  to  do  so." 

"I  am  convinced  that  he  would,"  Loissel  assured  her. 

"  Then, "  replied  my  aunt,  as  if  the  matter  were  already 
settled,  "you  agree  with  me.  Will  you  tell  him  that  we 
do  not  wish  it  exhibited?" 

Loissel  straightened  himself;  he  was  a  very  command- 
ing old  man. 

"I  will  not,"  he  answered  sternly.  "If  you  wish  a 
great  picture  suppressed,  madame,  you  must  not  ask 
me  to  help  you.  But,"  he  added,  his  voice  become 
more  gentle,  "you  will,  please,  listen  to  me  before  you 
decide.  I  know  very  well  that  this  painting  may  cause 
some  unpleasantness  to  Miss  Onnington.  Fools  will 


352  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

use  their  memories,  and  there  will  be  talk.  That  is  the 
one  side;  I  will  show  you  the  other.  It  is  not  an  easy 
thing  to  gain  one's  living  by  any  art;  the  way  is,  of 
necessity,  so  hard  that  there  is  no  cause  to  make  it 
harder,  even  though  you  do  not  like  the  artist.  If  the 
matter  stopped  there,  I  do  not  think  that,  on  account 
of  a  little  inconvenience,  you  should  interfere  with  a 
poor  man  who  is  struggling  hard;  but  the  matter  does 
not  stop  there,  it  goes  beyond,  very  far  beyond.  You 
say  that  this  picture  should  not  have  been  painted." 

"Certainly,"  interrupted  my  aunt.  "I  think  that 
Mr.  Massingdale  should  have  asked  my  daughter's 
permission  before  he  painted  her  portrait. " 

"Ah,  man  Dieu!"  cried  Loissel,  raising  his  hands 
towards  the  ceiling,  his  great  head  bristling  with  excite- 
ment. "You  do  not  understand.  You  realise  nothing, 
nothing  at  all,  madame,  of  what  an  artist  feels.  It  is 
not  a  portrait  of  your  daughter — this!  It  is  a  great 
picture  of  a  woman.  He  paints  it,  that  boy  does,  with- 
out a  model,  without  even  a  lay  figure  to  help  him 
with  the  clothing.  It  is  in  him,  the  picture  that  he 
would  make;  it  burns  in  him,  fills  his  mind,  guides  his 
hand.  He  thinks  of  nothing  but  this  great  idea  of  his; 
he  works  at  it,  having  no  other  idea  than  that  he  must 
create  the  thing  he  feels.  He  is  inspired.  He  should 
have  asked  permission!  Seigneur!  do  you  think  that 
the  man  who  could  do  that — that,  madame — alone, 
seeing  only  his  own  vision,  would  stop  to  ask,  would 
cease  his  work  unless  blindness  or  death  compelled 
him?  I  tell  you  that  a  great  artist  did  that;  and  he  was 
inspired — inspired. " 

I  had  never  seen  the  old  man  so  moved;  his  voice 
shook,  his  hands  sawed  the  air,  his  English  became 
broken  and  almost  difficult  to  understand.  Yet  he 


Attitude  of  an  Old  Artist  353 

returned  to  the  attack  with  no  more  than  the  slightest 
pause  for  breath. 

"You  do  not  understand,"  he  repeated.  "The  rules 
that  you  make  do  not  apply  to  this.  It  is  different — 
quite  different.  All  life  is  not  just  gentlemen  and 
ladies  acting  together  in  a  polite  comedy.  He,  this 
boy  that  I  have  trained,  is  more  than  one  of  these  well- 
mannered  players.  He  does  great  things;  he  is  full  of 
passion — perhaps  of  foolishness.  It  would  be  quite 
wrong,  you  tell  me,  I  think,  for  a  gentleman  to  show 
a  picture  in  which  your  daughter's  face  was  used,  if 
she  did  not  wish  it.  Yes,  madame,  quite  wrong  for  a 
gentleman,  but  quite  right  for  a  great  artist.  It  is  of 
the  great  artist  that  I  speak — I,  Jean  Loissel,  who  have 
never  done  such  work  as  this.  He  works,  the  artist, 
for  his  art;  he  must  make  the  beautiful  things  that  he 
can.  That  is  his  faith  and  his  honour,  to  which  he 
must  be  true.  Do  you  think  that  I  betrayed  a  con- 
fidence, do  you  think  that  I  abuse  my  position  as  your 
host,  without  cause?  I  tell  you,  no.  If  you  refuse  to 
urge  him  to  show  his  picture,  Mr.  Massingdale  will  not 
allow  it  to  be  seen;  if  you  were  to  say  to  him  what  you 
have  said  to  me,  I  am  afraid  that,  perhaps,  he  would 
try  to  destroy  it.  I  am  very  sorry  for  you  in  your 
private  difficulties;  I  am  also  sad  for  him,  because  I 
love  him  like  a  son;  but  this  is  no  private  matter.  He 
is  young;  it  is  impossible  that  he  forgets  the  way  you 
think  of  him.  He  is  very  likely  to  do  foolish  things. 
Will  you,  because  of  this  quarrel,  to  stop  a  little  talk, 
allow  him  to  hide  something  that  the  world  should  see? 
Is  it  right  that  we,  and  the  men  who  shall  come  after 
us,  should  lose  this  picture?" 

My  aunt  did  not  reply;  Tom  moved  uneasily  in  his 
chair;  my  uncle  and  Joan  gave  no  sign  of  their  feelings. 
23 


354  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

I  dared  not  speak,  for  I  believed  that  Loissel  spoke  the 
truth,  that  Massingdale  would  destroy  his  painting,  if 
he  thought  that  Joan  had  seen  it  and  disliked  it,  and 
believing  that,  I  had  no  choice  between  silence  and  an 
unseemly  outburst  of  oaths.  That  Massingdale's  first 
chance  of  gaining  fame  should  be  lost,  that  the  picture 
should  be  spoiled  or  hidden,  through  his  own  idiotic 
sense  of  what  was  fitting,  or  on  account  of  the  Onningtons' 
obstinacy,  was  more  than  I  could  stand. 

Then  Joan  broke  the  silence,  which  grew  unbearable. 

"Please  tell  Mr.  Massingdale,  when  you  next  see 
him,"  she  said  to  Loissel,  "that  I  admire  his  work  more 
than  I  can  say,  and  that  I  hope  that  he  will  exhibit  it 
in  the  Salon  next  spring.  Make  him  understand  that 
I  mean  what  I  say. " 

Loissel  crossed  the  room  to  where  she  sat,  seizing 
her  hand  and  patting  it. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  murmured,  his  deep  voice  very 
soft,  "you,  then,  understand.  I  thank  you.  Bon  Dieu, 
but  I  thank  you. " 

Tom  made  no  attempt  to  hide  his  satisfaction.  He 
had  always  considered  his  family's  attitude  towards 
Massingdale  as  absurd;  and  on  no  other  grounds  than 
that  he  knew  something  of  the  man,  he  had  refused 
to  believe  him  guilty  of  the  actions  of  which  he  was 
accused. 

"Good  work,  Joan!"  he  cried.  "Of  course  he  has  got 
to  show  the  thing,  and  make  his  name  by  it.  I  had  an 
awful  moment  thinking  that  you  would  object.  My 
eloquence  was  just  about  screwed  up  to  concert  pitch; 
I  was  on  the  point  of  giving  tongue,  when  you  saved 
the  company  that  entertainment.  You  're  not  a  bad 
child,  Joan;  I  begin  to  see  your  merits. " 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,  Tom,"  my  aunt   interrupted; 


Attitude  of  an  Old  Artist  355 

she  did  not  share  our  relief.  "The  matter,  of  course, 
is  settled.  If  Joan  wishes  the  picture  exhibited,  I  have 
no  more  to  say.  I  am  surprised,  I  confess. " 

"I  can't  understand  why,  mother,"  Joan  informed 
her.  "You  surely  must  agree  with  Monsieur  Loissel; 
we  should  have  done  Mr.  Massingdale  a  great  wrong 
in  objecting.  We  have  absolutely  no  right  to  interfere 
with  his  work  or  his  career. " 

My  uncle  made  an  effort  to  turn  the  conversation;  he 
would  have  stood  by  his  womenkind  whatever  attitude 
they  had  taken,  but  he  was  not  displeased,  I  fancy,  at 
the  turn  of  events. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  he,  putting  his  hand  on  his  daughter's 
shoulder,  "since  you  have  made  up  your  mind,  my 
dear,  let 's  pass  the  matter  over.  I  'm  very  glad  that 
you  have  been  able  to  do  what  you  have  done.  We  '11 
hope  that  Monsieur  Loissel  is  right,  and  that  the  picture 
proves  a  great  success  for  its  creator. " 

"As  for  that, "  laughed  Loissel,  now  all  content  again, 
"there  is  no  doubt. " 

So  the  fate  of  La  Femme  being  settled,  we  talked 
of  other  things;  and  our  host  was  at  great  pains  to 
conciliate  Mrs.  Onnington,  who  held  out  distinct,  yet 
unobtrusive,  signals  of  offence. 

When  his  other  guests  had  gone,  Loissel  filled  and 
lit  his  cherrywood  pipe,  settled  himself  in  his  arm-chair, 
and  smoked  some  minutes  without  speaking. 

"If,"  said  he  at  last,  "your  little  cousin  had  not 
agreed  with  me,  I  should  have  been  forced  into  telling 
a  great  many  very  difficult  lies.  We  would  have  taken 
no  risks  with  that,  my  friend. "  He  pointed  to  the  easel. 
"And  now,"  he  continued,  "we  will  talk  of  youth  and 
folly,  and  also  of  the  very  pleasant  times  that  we  have 
had  together." 


356  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

Which,  with  other  matters,  kept  us  from  our  beds 
until  Paris  slumbered  heavily  about  us,  making  the 
most  of  her  short  rest. 

When  I  got  back  to  London  I  found  many  things 
to  keep  me  busy,  to  twist  my  thoughts,  during  most 
of  the  hours  of  the  day,  into  less  diverting  shapes  than 
they  had  adopted  for  two  months  or  more.  The  law 
is  full  of  interest;  its  practice  does  not  lack  incident; 
but  the  lawyer,  although  he  is  continually  in  contact 
with  uncommon  types  of  his  fellowmen,  lacks  some- 
thing of  gaiety  in  his  professional  life,  and  is,  or  should 
be,  a  stranger  to  the  irresponsible.  I  was  nourishing 
a  small  and  very  tender  reputation;  I  was  looking 
forward  to  the  time  when  the  income  that  I  earned 
would  pay  the  chief  part  of  my  expenses,  and  I  found 
the  occupation  sufficiently  engrossing. 

Once  only,  in  the  course  of  six  weeks  or  so,  I  got 
down  to  Elsingham.  On  that  occasion  I  found  Joan 
had  got  rid  of  the  bored  manner  that  had  grown  on  her 
some  months  before,  and  was  herself  again,  taking 
interest  in  most  things,  more  ready  with  sympathy  and 
understanding  than  formerly,  and  somewhat  inclined 
to  hold  conventionality  a  supreme  folly.  She  talked 
a  good  bit  about  women  having  something  to  do  in 
life,  yet  she  gave  no  hint  of  an  intention  to  embark 
on  any  career  open  to  them.  I  got  the  impression  that 
she  was  trying  to  come  to  some  decision;  on  what  point 
I  could  gather  no  idea.  Gatton  was  my  fellow  guest 
for  the  week-end,  and  his  chances  of  persuading  Joan 
to  marry  him  seemed  to  have  disappeared.  I  was 
sorry  for  him,  as  he  had  been  met  a  fair  half-way  along 
the  road  when  I  had  last  watched  his  advances;  and 
I  would  lay  a  wager  that  he  had,  on  this  occasion,  come 
to  Elsingham  to  put  the  finish  on  the  matter.  I  travelled 


Attitude  of  an  Old  Artist  357 

back  to  town  with  him,  and  he  was  a  gloomy  companion. 
During  the  course  of  the  journey  he  volunteered  two 
statements,  both  diagnostic  of  his  condition:  he  informed 
me  that  his  luck  had  been  dead  out  for  some  time  past; 
and  later,  without  any  nearer  reference  to  my  conversa- 
tion than  before,  that  "sooner  or  later  the  damned 
thing  is  bound  to  turn."  I  expressed  a  desire  to  hear 
of  its  doing  so,  and  we  reached  Liverpool  Street  in  more 
hopeful  mood. 

Shortly  after  this  I  received  a  letter  from  Loissel,  the 
purport  of  which  was  that  I  should  use  every  induce- 
ment that  I  had  at  my  command  to  persuade  Massing- 
dale  to  pay  a  visit  to  England.  "He  talks,"  wrote  the 
old  artist,  "of  all  sorts  of  things.  He  suffers  from  the 
reaction  that  was  inevitable  after  our  adventures.  His 
picture  of  the  stilt-dancer  is  finished,  and  he  has,  for 
the  moment,  no  work  to  do."  From  the  rest  of  the 
letter  I  gathered  that  Massingdale  was  talking  of  leaving 
Europe  and  voyaging  to  the  East,  which  excursion  he 
could  not  afford;  that  there  had  been  a  fearful  scene 
when  Loissel  explained  that  the  Onningtons  had  seen 
La  Femme,  which  was  what  I  had  expected;  and  that 
even  Paris,  his  much-beloved  city,  could  not  charm 
away  the  unrest  in  his  excitable  heart.  A  return  to 
England,  which  he  had  not  seen  for  two  years  and  a  half, 
could  do  him  no  harm  and  might  do  him  some  good: 
so  the  old  man  argued,  and  so  I  thought.  He  could  not 
for  ever  be  an  exile,  and  a  visit  to  London  and  his  own 
kind  would  cause  him  to  go  back  to  Paris,  where  for 
many  reasons  he  intended  to  live,  in  a  more  settled  mood. 
He  could  raise  money  on  Blinkson's  legacy,  and  for  a 
short  time  live  the  life  of  other  men  of  his  breed,  and  age, 
and  station. 

Therefore,  I  wrote  to  him  producing  all   the  argu- 


358  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

ments  that  I  could  discover;  begging  him  to  be  my 
companion  in  Brick  Court  once  again  and  urging  him 
to  stay  with  me  at  least  a  month.  I  got  his  answer, 
which  was  characteristic  of  Massingdale  in  his  less 
wordy  mood,  by  return  of  post.  It  ran : 

"HONOURED  ADVOCATE, — Whomsoever  you  may  hap- 
pen to  defend  is  safe  from  the  law's  punishment! 
Prosecute  a  man  and  you  have  damned  him,  even  in  his 
innocence!  I '11  come.  Are  you  mad?  I  think  you  must 
be  when  you  talk  of  four  weeks — in  London.  Before 
half  that  time  is  passed,  I — more  fortunate  than  Alexan- 
der, an  ancient  great  man — shall  have  discovered  new 
worlds  to  conquer,  and  shall  be  already  in  the  tented 
field;  i.e.,  a  new  studio  that  I  have  my  eye  upon.  God 
be  with  you,  Richard ;  I  '11  let  you  know  when  I  purpose 
to  arrive. 

"K.  L.  M." 


CHAPTER  XX 

MORE    UNREST,   BUT    OF    A   DIFFERENT   KIND 

MASSINGDALE  arrived,  why  I  have  not  been  able 
to  discover,  on  a  Sunday  morning,  having 
travelled  by  Havre  and  Southampton  for  no  other  reason, 
I  believe,  than  that  it  happens  to  be  the  slowest  method 
of  journeying  from  Paris  to  London.  Friendship  should 
be  above  politeness;  therefore  I  did  not  meet  him  at 
Waterloo,  but  contented  myself  with  preparing  breakfast 
for  him  in  my  chambers.  He  put  in  an  appearance  a 
few  minutes  after  ten,  and  he  wore  the  air  of  a  man 
who  suffers  the  world's  folly  with  resignation. 

"Greeting,  Richard,"  he  announced,  as  he  stood  in 
the  doorway.  "In  that  you  live  in  this  country,  I 
pity  you;  in  that  you  are  cheerful  in  it,  I  admire  you; 
in  that  all  its  multitudinous  horrors  have  never  lured 
you  to  public  protest,  a  thing  perfectly  useless  but 
occasionally  satisfying,  I  find  a  circumstance  that  fills 
me  with  awe  and  wonder.  Sir,  I  slept  so  sound  upon 
the  boat  this  night  that  I  allowed  no  time  for  breakfast ; 
being  upon  English  soil  in  the  grey  of  the  Sabbath 
morning,  I  was  not  permitted  to  eat — such  would  seem 
the  hospitality  of  the  natives;  therefore,  I  hunger. 
Eggs?  They  shall  be  buttered,  Richard !  Bacon?  You 
have  that?  Fried — no  room  for  doubt  there!  Marma- 
lade? And  tea — as  you  honour  me,  no  hint  of  your 

359 


360  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

vile  coffee!  Ten  minutes  ago  I  was  engaged  with  the 
framing  of  excuses,  I  was  preparing  to  announce  my 
instant  intention  of  returning  whence  I  came ;  now,  since 
you  in  your  great  wisdom  have  set  before  me  my  country's 
chiefest  glory,  I  am  content  to  stop  a  little  while — per- 
haps, even,  to  brave  another  Sabbath.  Breakfasts  and 
beer — you  break  an  egg  with  the  skill  of  a  master — 
have  held  many  wavering  Britons  steady  in  their 
patriotic  faith." 

"Why  did  you  arrive  on  the  Sabbath?  "  I  asked. 

He  waved  the  butter  dish,  which  he  carried  towards 
the  fire,  in  the  air,  expressing  his  inability  to  answer  me. 

"There,"  he  replied,  "you  touch  on  the  inexplicable. 
How  .can  any  man  account  for  his  actions — yet  I  have 
heard  many  try.  Perhaps,"  he  added  gravely,  "some 
hidden  vein  of  asceticism  would  give  you  your  explana- 
tion; perhaps  I  wished,  for  my  soul's  good — a  worthy 
cause — to  suffer  inconvenience. " 

Throughout  the  meal  and  for  the  rest  of  that  day 
he  talked  an  endless  stream  of  nonsense,  occasionally 
touching  on  some  subject  that  he  treated  with  respect, 
but  immediately  shying  from  it  as  if  he  was  afraid  of 
seriousness.  I  realised  that  Loissel  had  written  the 
truth  when  he  stated  that  Massingdale  suffered  in  the 
reaction  after  much  excitement,  yet  I  knew  the  man 
sufficiently  well  to  let  his  mood  run  without  any  attempt 
to  check  it,  to  wait  until,  of  his  own  accord,  he  spoke 
of  the  future  and  its  promise.  The  scar  on  his  head 
showed  plainly  beneath  the  hair  of  his  left  temple;  he 
had  the  appearance  of  a  man  much  worried,  and  he  was 
very  thin;  but  his  laughter  was  not  forced,  and  for  the 
moment,  at  least,  he  had  shut  his  eyes  to  the  things  he 
did  not  wish  to  see,  dwelling  in  a  condition  of  mental 
inactivity. 


More  Unrest  361 

For  several  days  he  kept  to  the  same  business;  talk- 
ing extravagantly;  wandering  London  in  search  of 
amusement  while  I  was  at  work;  and,  in  the  evenings, 
keeping  me  company  in  whatever  I  proposed  by  way 
of  entertainment.  About  a  week  after  his  arrival,  on 
a  Monday  night,  if  I  remember  rightly,  his  temper 
altered,  and  he  showed  me  much  of  the  unrest  and 
trouble  of  his  life. 

We  had  dined  at  the  Cock,  and  had  gone  back  to 
spend  a  quiet  evening  in  my  rooms,  for  the  night  was 
foggy  and  wet,  offering  little  inducement  to  drag  a 
man  from  his  arm-chair  and  his  fire.  My  neighbour, 
and  Massingdale's  successor  in  the  rooms  across  the 
staircase,  came  in  soon  after  we  had  settled  down;  he 
stopped  an  hour  or  so,  and,  being  a  man  who  loved 
argument,  deliberately  trailed  his  coat  in  the  hope  that 
we  would  step  upon  it.  In  other  moods  Massingdale 
would  have  seized  the  opportunity  with  eagerness,  and 
the  small  hours  would  have  seen  us,  dry-throated  and 
voluble,  very  far  from  the  point  where  we  had  started; 
but  on  this  occasion  he  refused  the  challenge,  scarcely 
spoke  at  all,  and  convinced  the  visitor,  who  met 
him  for  the  first  time,  that  he  was  either  naturally 
taciturn  or  unnaturally,  in  view  of  the  hour,  inclined 
to  sleep. 

When  we  were  alone  again,  he  stirred  the  fire  into  a 
blaze,  filled  and  lit  a  cool  pipe,  and  lay  back  in  his 
chair,  staring  in  silence  at  the  dancing  flames. 

"If,"  said  I,  after  some  few  minutes,  "you  want  to 
dream,  I  '11  read  through  some  papers.  I  've  got  quite 
a  busy  week  before  me." 

"Dream!"  he  echoed,  sitting  up.  "I  have  no  use  for 
dreams  to-night,  Dick.  We  '11  talk.  I  was  at  the  docks 
to-day." 


362  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"Well?  What  of  it?"  I  asked,  judging  from  his 
manner  that  he  was  heading  towards  some  wild  decision. 

"This,"  cried  he,  sitting  forward  and  playing  with 
the  poker:  "I  am  going  away,  out  of  all  this,  to  see 
something  of  other  lands.  I  '11  get  a  sight  of  the  sun; 
I  '11  fill  myself  with  colour — rich,  brilliant,  bright  colour ; 
I  '11  learn  something  of  the  things  I  have  often  dreamed 
about." 

"0  Lord!"  I  interrupted;  but  he  paid  no  attention 
to  me,  his  thoughts  being  fixed  upon  the  plans  of  which 
he  spoke. 

"I  fell  in  talk  with  the  skipper  of  a  barque,"  he  con- 
tinued. "She  is  named  the  Laughing  Girl;  is  now 
getting  in  her  cargo,  and  is  due  to  sail  for  New  Zealand 
to-morrow  week.  I  went  to  the  owners  and  spoke  them 
fair;  they  are  willing  to  give  me  a  passage  aboard  of 
her  for  almost  nothing — a  pound  a  week,  all  in.  The 
junior  partner  in  the  firm  is  a  man  whom  I  knew  slightly 
at  Cambridge,  and  he  settled  the  thing  for  me.  I  sign 
on  as  an  extra  purser — the  usual  game — and,  of  course, 
have  nothing  to  do  but  use  my  eyes,  and  enjoy  myself. " 

"You  have  n't  signed  on  yet?"  I  gasped. 

"No,"  he  answered;  "there  is  no  need  to  do  that 
until  the  day  before  we  sail.  Think  of  it,  Dick !  Many 
weeks  at  sea — real  sea,  not  water  seen  afar  off  from  the 
decks  of  a  steam  hotel — a  sailing  ship,  and,  at  the  end, 
the  Pacific  Isles.  That 's  where  I  make  for,  the  Pacific 
Isles!  To  the  sun  and  the  flowers,  the  eternal  booming 
of  the  surf  upon  the  reef,  the  finest  climate,  the  happiest 
people  on  this  earth." 

"You  don't  seriously  mean  this?"  I  asked. 

Massingdale  turned  his  head  towards  me,  holding 
the  poker  raised.  I  could  read  nothing  but  astonish- 
ment on  his  face. 


More  Unrest  363 

"Why  should  n't  I  mean  it?"  he  questioned. 

"  Because  the  whole  idea  is  absurd, "  I  retorted,  getting 
up  from  my  chair  and  standing  in  front  of  the  fire. 
"You  have  not  got  the  money  to  go  rushing  off  round 
the  world.  You  've  plenty  of  work  to  do,  and  a  name 
to  make  as  well,  and  if  you  start  obeying  every  whim 
that  takes  you,  you  '11  finish  in  an  asylum  or  the  work- 
house." 

I  was  playing  for  an  outburst  of  words,  for  a  heated 
contradiction,  a  flood  of  passion,  and  then,  as  I  hoped, 
a  reaction  and  some  acceptance  of  my  points.  I  was 
disappointed.  Massingdale  showed  no  excitement.  He 
put  down  the  poker  quietly,  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
and  looked  up  at  me  steadily. 

"You  're  going  a  bit  astray,  Dick,"  he  remarked.  "I 
have  got  the  money.  Blinkson  left  it  to  me — something 
over  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year.  I  'm  a  sort 
of  Croesus,  my  friend,  compared  with  the  beggar  that 
I  have  been.  As  for  my  work,  that  shall  not  suffer. 
Loissel  did  what  I  propose  doing,  and  I  am  content 
to  follow  him.  Lastly,  you  speak  of  this  as  a  whim. 
Why?  You  know  something  of  me — do  you  think  the 
decision  is,  therefore,  so  extraordinary?  You  ought  to 
have  guessed  that  I  should  not  remain  many  months 
hanging  about  when  I  had  the  chance  to  wander.  Have 
you  anything  more  against  the  scheme?" 

I  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  searching  without 
success  for  some  argument  that  might  persuade  him. 
In  my  own  mind  I  held  the  plan  a  piece  of  folly,  yet 
I  could  find  no  means  of  making  him  see  as  I  did. 

"Of  course,"  I  told  him  at  last,  "I  expect  you  to  do 
strange  things.     That  is  part  of  your  life's  business. 
Also,  I  don't  want  to  interfere  in  your  affairs.    But —  . 
we  need  not  dwell  on  the  point — we  are  friends,  and  I 


364  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

should  like  to  get  at  your  reasons,  if  you  care  to  give 
them.  Why  this  sudden  decision?" 

He  stood  up,  and  in  the  light  of  the  hanging  electric 
lamp  I  saw  his  face  weary  and  sad.  He  paced  the  room 
restlessly,  as  he  always  did  when  things  disturbed  him, 
and  he  spoke  without  pausing  in  his  march. 

"You  ask  me  a  question  that  I  cannot  answer,"  said 
he.  "I  'm  out  of  tune  with  this  way  of  living.  That,  I 
believe,  is  all  there  is  to  say.  I  must  live  my  life  as 
I  see  it — the  old  cry  that  is  nearly  always  true.  I  have 
something  to  do.  Except  now  and  again,  when  things 
look  very  black,  I  believe  that  I  shall  be  able  to  do  it. 
You  need  not  tell  me  that  I  have  started  well.  I  know 
that  better  than  you  do — much  better.  The  start  is 
important,  but  the  road  is  rough  all  the  way  along. 
You  are  playing  a  gambling  hand  yourself,  and  you 
know  that  a  little  carelessness,  no  matter  when  it  comes, 
may  ruin  the  work  of  years  and  spoil  the  future.  It  is 
that  that  I  fear.  Painters  are  not  made  with  technique 
alone.  Skill  is  not  much  good,  if  the  man  behind  it  is  a 
fool.  I  'm  not  bored,  Dick.  I  find  almost  everything 
about  me  full  of  interest  as  I  always-have,  but  I  can't 
see  straight.  The  world  has  got  twisted.  Lately  I  have 
been  faced  with  a  choice  of  evils:  to  see  the  ugly  side 
and  show  it,  which  means  damnation,  or  to  pretend  to 
see  the  sunshine  when  it  comes  to  me  filtered  through 
the  mists,  which  will  end  in  artificiality  and  hopeless 
failure.  Therefore,  I  'm  off.  I  '11  get  jogged  up,  stirred 
out  of  this  fool's  mood,  and  back  to  the  proper  thing 
again. " 

Again  we  fell  silent,  and  then  I  put  him  a  direct 
question. 

"This  fool's  mood,  as  you  call  it,"  I  asked  him,  "is  it 
connected  in  any  way  with  Joan  Onnington?  " 


More  Unrest  365 

He  jerked  his  head  back,  looking  me  very  squarely 
in  the  face. 

"  It  is, "  he  answered. 

I  thought  that  I  had  found  the  way  of  persuading 
him  against  the  voyage,  and  urged  my  point. 

"Won't  time  right  the  business  anyhow?  Surely  this 
mood  is  only  the  natural  result  of  seeing  her  again." 

Massingdale  came  up  to  the  fire  and  leaned  on  the  back 
of  the  arm-chair  in  which  he  had  been  sitting. 

"Should  you  call  me  a  misanthrope?"  he  inquired 
abruptly. 

"Hardly,"  I  replied,  astonished  at  the  question. 

"Should  you  think  me  without  affection,  and  careless 
about  other  men's  opinions  of  me?  " 

"Certainly  not  the  first;  very  slightly,  perhaps — really 
not  at  all,  the  second." 

"Then,"  said  he,  "your  remedy  cannot  be  applied. 
I  have  quarrelled  with  my  father,  and  while  I  am  in  a 
position  to  run  across  him  any  day,  I  cannot  forget  the 
circumstances  that  make  us  avoid  each  other.  I  am 
considered  a  sort  of  amusing  scoundrel  by  most  of  the 
men  I  used  to  know.  I  have  met  them  again — some  of 
them — in  the  last  few  days,  and  it  is  very  clear  what 
they  think.  That  goes  against  the  healing  effect  of  time. 
I  '11  be  damned  if  any  man  can  stand  being  treated 
as  a  kind  of  criminal,  and  maintain  both  his  good  con- 
ceit and  a  decent  regard  for  the  acquaintances  he  happens 
to  meet.  I  wish  to  keep  both.  " 

He  hesitated,  staring  before  him,  seeming  uncertain 
whether  he  would  add  something  more  to  his  explana- 
tion, then,  having  made  up  his  mind,  spoke  again,  but 
more  quickly  and  in  a  lower  voice. 

"That  is  not  all,  Dick,"  he  continued.  "There  is 
another  reason  why  I  should  go  beside  that.  For  the 


366  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

last  two  years  I  have  been  persuading  myself  that  time 
would  right  things — most  of  us  cling  to  that  belief; 
now  I  am  convinced  that  it  will  not.  I  forgot  all  the 
practical  details.  I  just  dreamed  that,  given  the  chance, 
I  could  set  the  business  straight  again.  I  got  the  chance 
— I  made  things  worse. " 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?"  I  interrupted,  not  with  any 
idea  that  he  was  mistaken,  simply  because  it  seemed 
to  me  the  thing  to  say. 

"Quite  certain,"  he  answered,  and  started  pacing  the 
room  again.  "I  have  got  on  the  other  side  of  the  ditch, 
and  as  I  won't  or  can't  cross  it  again,  there  is  little 
sense  in  thinking  of  the  fields  behind  that  I  once  played 
in.  I  hope  for  all  sorts  of  delightful  country  ahead, 
but  just  at  the  moment  the  old  things  that  I  miss  about 
me  bulk  rather  large. " 

I  did  not  offer  any  comment;  I  was  thinking  of  the 
moonlit  garden  at  La  Fontaine  des  Bois  and  of  Massing- 
dale  trying  to  use  his  chance,  as  he  called  it,  and  of  his 
failure.  The  hanging  lamp  was  well  shaded  so  that  my 
face  was  in  shadow  as  I  stood  before  the  fire,  for  which 
thing  I  was  thankful,  since  I  felt,  and  very  probably 
looked,  uncomfortable.  Suddenly,  after  he  had  taken 
several  turns  in  his  pacing  to  and  fro,  Massingdale 
burst  out  into  speech  again,  passionately,  with  many 
excited  gestures. 

"  I  'm  sick  at  the  whole  fool  business, "  he  cried;  "more 
than  half  the  thing  is  sham.  We  are  afraid,  the  whole 
lot  of  us,  afraid  to  appear  what  we  really  are.  Some 
people  call  it  civilisation.  My  God!  if  they  are  right, 
then  to  be  civilised  is  the  worst  and  final  evil.  It  is 
cowardice,  fear — nothing  more.  We  call  in  theories, 
nice  modern  theories  of  which  we  are  so  proud,  to  hide 
the  truth  from  us.  Violence  is  wrong,  we  say;  strength 


More  Unrest  367 

is  an  abuse;  passion  a  thing  to  hide.  Suffering,  and 
evil,  and  cruelty  must  be  forgotten  when  we  plan  the 
future.  Your  politician  secures  votes  by  talk  of  pretty, 
humane  schemes  which  he  knows  in  his  heart  are  doomed 
to  failure;  your  socialist  and  democrat  calls  out  that 
nature  may  be  superseded  if  the  people  will  only  govern 
themselves,  because  he  is  a  fool  and  would  rather  deafen 
himself  with  the  noise  of  his  own  folly  than  take  one 
glance  at  the  truth,  which  is  plain  and  strong  and  cruel. 
We  artists  are  no  better.  We  explain  our  art,  we  tell 
the  world  how  it  is  really  beautiful  and  for  their  good, 
because  we  are  afraid  to  stand  by  ourselves,  do  the  thing 
that  appeals  to  us,  and  take  the  reward  or  the  failure  as 
it  comes.  When  we  paint  a  picture  or  when  we  write  a 
book,  we  are  intent  to  show  that  it  is  done  in  the  interest 
of  humanity,  that  it  embodies  some  noble  lesson  of  truth 
and  beauty;  we  dare  not  cry:  'There  is  our  work,  to  us 
it  is  good,  accept  it  on  its  merits. '  If  we  did  so,  we  should 
proclaim  ourselves  individualists — mark  the  word — 
careless  of  our  neighbour's  good,  just  what  we  really  are. 
We  are  afraid  to  call  ourselves  such  names,  so  we  wallow 
in  stupid,  meaningless  talk.  On  all  men's  lips  there  are 
phrases  about  the  good  of  humanity;  everywhere  societies 
are  formed  to  prevent  cabbages  from  suffering  injustice, 
little  boys  from  being  brutalised  by  whipping,  or  gentle 
murderers  from  being  killed;  we  must  carefully,  in  all  that 
we  write  and  all  that  we  say,  avoid  the  mention  of  cruelty 
and  the  triumph  of  the  strong;  we  pity  the  dark  ages 
when  men  fought  and  robbed  each  other,  when  chivalry 
existed,  when  fewer  men  covered  their  actions  by  the 
pretence  that  they  worked  for  others ;  we  profess  a  virtu- 
ous honour  for  the  blackguard  who  thinks  only  of  himself ; 
and  beneath  all  the  noise  and  outcry,  behind  the  fine 
text-bedaubed  front  that  we  show  to  the  world,  we 


368  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

struggle  and  fight,  perform  our  little  tricks  and  knaveries, 
kick  the  weak  and  cringe  to  the  strong,  as  our  fathers  did 
before  us.  We  are  horribly  afraid  of  pain ;  ashamed  of  any 
simple  honest  sentiment;  inclined  to  make  a  virtue  of 
drifting  along  in  a  herd,  because  we  have  not  the  courage 
to  stand  alone;  beyond  that — nothing,  not  one  single 
good  point  that  the  men  who  made  us  had  not  got." 

His  long  oration  finished,  he  dropped  into  an  arm- 
chair and  gazed  with  fiery,  indignant  eyes  at  the  glowing 
coals. 

"It 's  a  full  indictment,"  I  laughed,  seeing  him  silent 
again,  "and,  doubtless,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  truth 
in  it,  but " 

"But,"  he  interrupted,  his  passion  subsided,  "it 's  the 
complaint  of  a  fool.  I  know  that,  man  Richard.  It  's 
the  way  I  feel  at  present;  therefore,  I  'm  much  better 
away.  When  I  come  back,  I  shall  be  able  to  laugh 
at  it,  which  is  its  proper  treatment.  Meanwhile,  I  '11 
take  myself  where  the  talk  is  of  a  different  sort.  What 
about  a  walk?  It  is  abominably  stuffy  in  here. " 

He  threw  open  the  window,  and  let  in  much  raw, 
yellow  fog;  shouted  that  here  was  the  night  to  wander 
London;  refused  all  my  enticements  to  draw  him  back 
into  discussion;  was  firmly  denied  my  company;  and 
so  departed  to  find  the  beauties  of  London,  which  the 
weather  very  effectually  obscured,  and  the  delights  of 
nocturnal  rambling,  which  on  such  a  night,  I  should 
imagine,  were  hard  to  come  upon. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  WOMAN  DECIDES 

THE  following  morning  I  received  a  note  from  Joan, 
asking  me  to  meet  her  that  afternoon.  She  was, 
her  letter  told  me,  stopping  in  town  with  the  Wrants,  and 
would  give  me  the  great  joy  of  taking  her  out  to  tea, 
as  she  wished  to  talk  with  me.  She  appointed  a  meet- 
ing-place, the  vicinity  of  some  confounded  draper's 
shop,  and,  contrary  to  her  usual  custom,  for  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  assuming  that  her  wishes  would  be  met, 
she  detailed  the  methods,  several  alternatives,  by  which 
I  was  to  communicate  with  her  and  arrange  some  other 
time,  if  the  one  that  she  had  named  did  not  suit  me. 
Remembering  certain  signs  that  she  had  exhibited 
when  I  was  last  at  Elsingham,  a  horrid  fear  seized  me, 
as  I  read  her  letter,  that  I  should  drink  my  tea  that 
afternoon  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  dissertation  on 
women's  work,  followed  by  an  announcement,  disguised 
as  a  request  for  advice,  that  the  girl  was  about  to  become 
a  hospital  nurse,  a  poultry  farmer,  or  the  proprietress  of  a 
shop — something,  in  any  case,  that  involved  a  large 
amount  of  labour  in  which  she  took  no  interest.  I 
sighed  at  the  prospect,  hoped  that  I  had  misjudged  the 
case,  and  resolved  to  do  my  cousinly  duty  of  supplying 
my  company  and  such  entertainment  as  was  required  of 
me.  That  settled,  I  divided  my  attention  between 

24  369 


370  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

the  breakfast  in  front  of  me  and  hinting  at  obstacles  in 
the  way  of  Massingdale's  proposed  travels.  He,  ignoring 
my  efforts  for  his  welfare,  began  to  narrate  his  experi- 
ences in  the  fog,  and,  such  is  the  power  of  the  man's 
tongue,  he  caused  me  to  forget  the  remarks  I  had  pre- 
pared for  him  while  shaving,  and,  moreover,  to  sit  talking 
far  longer  than  I  had  intended. 

At  four  forty-five  that  afternoon  I  arrived  at  the  meet- 
ing-place which  had  been  named;  about  thirty  seconds 
afterwards  Joan  put  in  an  appearance,  a  very  charming 
figure  of  a  girl,  seemingly  in  the  best  of  spirits.  Whether 
it  is  poultry  farming  or  nursing,  thought  I,  the  thing 
seems  to  have  got  hold  of  her  fancy.  But  at  any  time, 
more  particularly  when  met  in  the  street,  it  is  hard 
to  read  a  woman's  intentions  in  her  face;  and  I 
had  to  content  myself  with  observing  her  obvious 
excitement. 

"Dick,"  said  she,  "I  'm  going  to  be  awfully  nice  to 
you ;  but  I  've  made  a  mess  of  the  start. " 

"  That 's  sad, "  I  allowed.    "  How?  " 

"It  is  one  of  your  cherished  convictions  that  no 
woman  is  ever  punctual.  I  should  have  been  five 
minutes  late,  then  you  would  have  been  content,  but 
not  bored  with  waiting. " 

"If  you  stop  here  talking,"  I  replied,  "simply  to 
show  that  abominable  extravagance  in  furs  enables 
you  to  keep  warm,  I  shall  get  bored  just  the  same. 
Where  do  you  want  to  go?" 

"Anywhere,"  she  answered;  "anywhere  with  cosy 
corners  where  we  can  sit  and  talk. " 

"I  am  to  be  honoured  with  your  confidence,  my 
cousin?" 

"Lots  of  it,  Dick,"  she  laughed.  "I  have  decided 
to  do  all  sorts  of  funny_things. " 


A  Woman  Decides  371 

I  groaned,  believing  that  my  worst  fears  would  come 
true,  and  hailed  a  cab.  We  drove  to  one  of  the  many 
tea-shops  where  the  price  that  he  pays  for  his  refresh- 
ment is  the  only  remarkable  point  that  the  visitor  is 
likely  to  notice,  and  we  chose  a  quiet  table  in  a  corner, 
as  far  as  possible  from  the  inevitable  orchestra.  And 
there,  for  some  minutes,  we  amused  ourselves  with 
casual  talk,  making  no  use  of  confidence.  Joan  asked 
me  how  the  briefs  were  coming  in,  and  I  made  a  suitable 
reply;  we  discussed  the  latest  fashions  in  women's  dress 
exhibited  around,  on  my  part  with  small  appreciation; 
we  criticised  the  music,  and  agreed  that  its  absence 
would  cause  us  no  regret ;  we  marked  time  very  carefully, 
awaiting  the  occasion  of  more  important  talk.  Having 
the  time  to  watch  her  closely,  I  discovered  that  there 
was  much  nervousness  mixed  with  Joan's  excitement, 
that  she  wore  an  air  of  purpose,  which  she  was  at  little 
pains  to  hide;  and  that  these,  together  with  the  other 
feelings  which  moved  her,  which  she  did  not  show  to  me, 
combined  to  produce  in  her  face  something  of  the  effect 
that  Massingdale  had  prophesied  in  his  painting.  Very 
clearly  she  had  something  of  importance  to  say  to  me, 
and  covered  with  small  talk  her  efforts  to  find  its  best 
expression.  Therefore,  I  consumed  my  tea  and  kept 
the  conversation  alive,  knowing  that  she,  or,  for  that 
matter,  any  other  human  animal,  had  better  come  to 
the  announcement  that  holds  their  attention  by  the  road 
that  they  have  chosen,  without  blundering  assistance 
from  others  who  do  not  understand  their  real  purpose. 

She  did  not  keep  me  waiting  for  any  long  time,  and 
when  she  began  to  give  me  her  confidence,  she  did  not 
start  farther  away  from  her  point  than  most  of  us  do 
on  similar  occasions. 

"I  suppose,"  she  suggested,  breaking  away  from  our 


372  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

criticism  of  the  orchestra,  "that  you  had  a  very  good 
time  in  France  last  summer. " 

"  I  did, "  I  agreed ;  "  an  excellent  time. " 

"It  makes  an  enormous  difference  what  sort  of  people 
you  are  with,"  she  continued.  "To  live  in  a  farmhouse 
like  that  with  ordinary  people,  who  must  have  some- 
thing definite  to  do  in  order  to  keep  themselves  amused, 
would  be  simply  impossible  for  more  than  a  week  or 
two." 

"Of  course,  we  were  a  most  original  and  distinguished 
crowd,"  I  laughed;  but  she  had  fallen  silent,  and  kept 
her  eyes  turned  towards  her  plate,  where  she  was  seriously 
engaged  in  cutting  a  pink  and  unwholesome  looking 
cake  into  small  cubes. 

I  determined  that  the  prelude  was  finished,  and  I 
watched  for  the  next  movement  with  interest. 

"Dick,"  she  announced  very  quietly,  without  looking 
up,  "  I  want  to  get  married. " 

"I  believe,"  I  suggested,  noticing  the  heightened 
colour  of  her  cheeks,  "that  the  wish  is  a  fairly  common 
one,  and  that,  in  the  case  of  a  maiden  with  your  charms, 
it  is  very  easily  fulfilled.  Do  I  know  the  man?  " 

"What  man?"  she  asked,  very  industrious  with  the 
cake. 

" The  man  you  wish  to  marry.  Who  else?" 

She  gave  me  no  direct  answer  to  that,  but  ceasing 
to  play  with  the  cake,  and  putting  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  she  looked  across  at  me  steadily. 

"Mr.  Massingdale  is  staying  with  you,  isn't  he?" 
she  asked.  "  The  Wrants  told  me  that  he  was. " 

I  judged  the  conversation  to  have  become  sufficiently 
interesting  to  demand  my  full  attention,  so  I  also  leaned 
across  the  table,  in  order  that  we  might  talk  without 
being  overheard. 


A  Woman  Decides  373 

"He  has  been  here  for  the  last  week,"  I  answered; 
adding,  without  any  effort  to  hide  my  astonishment: 
"Is  this  purely  irrelevant,  or  has  it  anything  to  do  with 
what  you  were  saying  before?" 

"Everything,"  Joan  told  me;  and  I  admired  the  way 
she  kept  her  eyes  on  mine,  although  her  embarrassment 
was  great.  "  It  is  the  answer  to  your  question. " 

"You  mean  this?"  I  gasped. 

"Is  it  a  thing  I  should  be  likely  to  say,  if  I  did 
not?" 

"No.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  suppose  you  know, 
Joan,  how  glad  I  am  to  hear  this,  and  all  that.  But, 
what — why  have  you — well,  what  is  going  to  happen?" 

I  found  the  sentence  somewhat  hard  to  finish.  I 
wanted  to  ask  why  on  earth  she  had  told  me  this;  and 
how  she  proposed  to  explain  to  Massingdale  the  change 
in  her  attitude;  and  why  the  change  had  come  about; 
but  these  are  questions  that  may  scarcely  in  decency 
be  put,  or  that,  being  asked,  are  not  likely  to  be  answered. 
However,  Joan  did  not  stop  at  a  half  confidence,  and, 
having  started,  gave  me  the  whole  tale.  One  hand 
supporting  her  head,  screening  much  of  her  face  from 
the  room,  the  other  playing  with  the  much-battered 
pink  cake,  her  eyes  sometimes  meeting  mine,  yet  more 
often  lowered,  her  voice  low  and  steady,  she  explained 
her  purpose  to  me. 

"I  want  you  to  help  me,"  she  informed  me,  hurrying 
her  words;  "that  is  the  reason  I  have  told  you  of  this. 
I  know  it  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  ought  to  be  kept  to 
oneself,  but  you  never  talk  of  other  people's  affairs, 
and — I  must  have  your  help,  Dick. " 

"Don't  flatter  me,  young  woman,"  I  interrupted. 
"Tell  me  what  I  can  do." 

"Take  me  to  your  rooms — now.    I  want  to  get  some- 


374  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

thing  over,  while  I  Ve  still  got  the  courage.  I  want  to 
meet  him  at  once." 

If  I  did  not  whistle,  I  came  very  near  it;  and  Joan 
certainly  saw  that  her  request  caused  me  a  good  deal 
of  surprise,  for  she  hurried  her  explanation  as  if  it  were 
a  relief  to  be  able  to  speak  of  the  matter. 

"I  have  been  blind,  absolutely  blind,"  she  pleaded, 
"since  I  heard  about  that  miserable  business.  Until  a 
few  weeks  ago,  I  have  thought  only  about  myself.  I 
was  angry.  I  thought  that  he  should  have  ceased  to 
take  any  kind  of  interest  in  any  woman  besides  myself. 
I  said  a  lot  of  things  I  did  not  mean,  and  when  he  would 
not  defend  himself,  I  thought  that  he  did  not  much 
care.  I  did  not  believe  that  he  had  done  anything  that 
was  dishonourable,  but  I  imagined  that  I  was  only  a 
little  thing  in  his  life."  She  was  silent  a  moment, 
arranging  the  crumbs  on  her  plate;  then  she  went  on 
with  her  tale  again,  her  voice  scarcely  more  than  a 
whisper.  "His  going  off  to  Paris  made  it  worse, 
although  he  had  always  told  me  that  he  would  do  it,  if 
he  could  ever  get  the  money.  The  thought  that  he  was 
probably  happy,  doing  the  work  that  he  loves,  made 
me  glad  that  I  had  done  what  I  had.  I  believed  that 
his  painting  was  more  to  him  than 'I  was.  Now  I  know 
that  that  is  true — and  I  don't  mind.  Then  I  did.  I 
expected  his  life  to  be  just  one  thing — without  ambition 
or  character,  a  horrible,  stupid  life  that  would  have 
died  a  few  months  after  we  were  married.  For  quite  a 
long  time  I  used  to  tell  myself  that  he  was  careless  of 
everything,  shallow,  amusing,  caring  only  for  the 
moment.  I  think  that,  sometimes,  I  believed  it.  I 
was  n't  happy,  and  I  tried  to  find  things  to  amuse  me. 
It  was  hardly  a  success. " 

She  paused  again,  and  seemed   so   absorbed  in  her 


A  Woman  Decides  375 

thoughts  that  she  forgot  to  play  with  the  cake.  I  sat 
still,  very  interested  to  know  what  she  was  going  to 
tell  me,  waiting  for  her  to  continue  the  story. 

"Dick,"  she  added  presently,  "I  Ve  learned  all  sorts 
of  things  lately,  things  that  most  people  know  as  they 
grow  older — that  is,  they  must  know  them  if  they  are 
going  to  be  happy.  I  have  discovered  what  I  want; 
that  is  always  important,  is  n't  it?  I  have  discovered 
that  what  I  thought  was  carelessness  is  something 
different:  sympathy,  interest  in  all  things,  love  of  living, 
I  don't  know  what  to  call  it,  but  it  is  something  that  I 
want.  It  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  makes  people  live 
together  far  more  happily  than  anything  else.  I  suppose 
that  you,  and  Monsieur  Loissel,  and  the  others  have 
known  all  along  what  he  was,  and  how  different  he  is  to 
other  people,  how  much  greater.  Don  't  laugh  at  that, 
Dick;  you  know  you  think  he  is.  Well,  I  learned  that 
too  a  little  time  ago.  I  'm  not  going  to  tell  you  how 
I  found  it  out.  Perhaps  you  can  guess.  But,  when  I 
saw  that  he  was  following  out  his  ideals  where  many 
men  would  have  been  afraid  of  the  poverty,  I  began 
to  think  that  I  had  made  a  bad  mistake;  and,  when  I 
discovered  that  he  could  laugh  and  work,  and  make 
every  one  who  met  him  amused,  although  his  life  was 
very  difficult,  I  was  quite  sure  that  I  did  not  mind  what 
he  had  done,  or  would  do.  I  only  thought  how  much 
I  wanted  him.  He  tried  to  talk  to  me  at  La  Fontaine 
des  Bois,  the  night  before  the  riot;  I  would  n't  let  him." 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  occupy  myself  with  the  contents 
of  my  plate.  Women  have  observant  eyes,  and  when  I 
am  peculiarly  ashamed  of  anything  I  find  it  hard  to 
hide  my  feelings.  Therefore,  I  took  no  risks,  and  did 
not  look  up  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"He  asked  me  why  I  had  altered, "  Joan  continued,  in 


376  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

the  same  low  voice.  "He  seemed  to  know  better  than  I 
did  that  I  was  not  seeing  things  properly.  I  was  begin- 
ning to  know  what  a  fool  I  had  been,  and  it  made  me 
angry  to  think  that  he  guessed  the  truth.  I  said  some- 
thing that  I  knew  would  hurt  him  very  much.  It  did. 
He  showed  me  that,  but  nothing  more.  Dick, "  she  went 
on,  and  I  saw  that  she  had  raised  her  eyes  from  her 
plate,  and  was  making  an  effort  to  cover  her  nervousness 
with  a  smile,  "I  am  going  to  do  a  most  unmaidenly 
thing.  I  'm  going  with  you  now,  to  tell  him  that  I  have 
made  a  mistake.  Is  n't  it  a  shocking  thing  to  do, 
Dick?" 

"My  Lord!"  said  I,  staring  at  her. 

"You  see,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  happen  to  know  that 
I  can  trust  you  both.  Whatever  happens — in  any  case 
— you  won't  give  my  horrid  conduct  away.  Then,  in 
the  second  place,  I  would  much  rather  do  this,  honestly, 
than  just  meet  him  again  and  do  my  best  to  get  him 
back ;  that  way  would  be  much  easier,  but  I  think  it 's 
rather  cowardly.  Last  of  all,  he  is  the  sort  of  man  who 
will  understand,  and — and  he  won't  pretend  anything. 
I  'm  quite  sure  he  won't  pretend  anything. " 

For  the  first  time  she  showed  me  the  full  strength 
of  her  feelings,  sitting  silent,  suddenly  grown  white, 
with  a  look  of  strain  about  her,  as  if  she  held  herself 
calm  with  an  effort.  How  much  anxious  thought,  how 
much  unhappiness,  had  gone  to  the  making  of  this 
attitude  of  hers,  I  can  never  know,  but  that  the  position 
was  not  easily  taken  is  very  obvious. 

She  expected  some  comment  from  me.  I  gave  her 
the  best  that  I  could  command. 

"  I  can't  form  any  opinion  about  this,"  I  informed  her. 
"These  things  are  not  in  my  line.  Because  it  happens 
to  be  direct,  avoids  compromise,  and  cannot  well  be 


A  Woman  Decides  377 

misunderstood,  I  should  judge  it  about  the  best  thing  to 
be  done.  You  and  Massingdale  are  not  strangers; but 
I  really  don't  know.  There  is  one  thing  I  must  say — 
like  asking  'No  spades,  partner?' — it  is  better  to  say  it, 
although  it  may  be  unnecessary.  You  can't  go  back, 
if  you  do  this,  Joan.  It  won't  be  all  nice,  high  romance; 
there  will  be  poverty  to  face.  You  must  expect  to  have 
him  as  he  is.  There  is  not  the  slightest  chance  now 
that  he  will  become  a  respectable  member  of  society, 
or  that,  for  some  years  in  any  case,  he  will  be  anything 
but  a  poor  man.  If  you  are  willing  to  put  up  with  all 
that,  to  try  to  help  him,  not  to  endeavour  to  make  him 
earn  a  position  and  a  reputation  at  the  cost  of  good 
work,  I  will  take  you  round  to  Brick  Court  now;  if,  how- 
ever, you  care  more  for  your  own  comfort,  and  ease — 
because  the  other  way  will  be  pretty  difficult — I  '11  do 
every  single  thing  that  I  can  to  prevent  you  two  meet- 
ing. I  have  spoken,  mademoiselle. " 

"I  think  I  rather  like  you  when  you  speak,"  Joan 
answered,  smoothing  and  arranging  her  gloves  on  the 
table.  "But  you  assume  rather  too  much.  You  talk 
as  if  things  were  settled — I  wish  they  were. " 

"I  quite  realise,"  said  I,  "that  you  are  bound  to  say 
that,  it 's  part  of  the  game;  but  since  I  notice  that  you 
have  eyes,  which,  I  believe,  you  use  for  something  else 
than  ornament,  I  decline  to  think  that  you  are  at  all 
uncertain  on  the  point.  Let 's  get  out  of  this,  however; 
we  can  talk  outside. " 

When  we  were  in  the  street,  I  started  to  stroll  along, 
quite  determined  that  I  would  take  no  initiative  in  the 
proceedings.  Joan,  however,  seemed  impatient ;  she  asked 
me  to  call  a  cab.  I  did  so,  and  we  started  for  the  Temple 
in  silence.  Her  desire  for  conversation  seemed  to  have 
passed;  her  nervousness  had  very  much  increased. 


378  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

"Rather  an  anti-climax,"  said  I,  as  we  drove  along 
the  Strand,  "if  we  find  the  quarry  out." 

To  which  encouraging  suggestion  I  got  no  answer. 

As  we  climbed  the  stairs  to  my  chambers,  I  made  a 
final  effort  to  break  the  silence,  basing  it  on  a  genuine 
desire  for  information. 

"Although  my  r61e  is  unimportant,"  I  announced,  "I 
should  like  to  know  what  it  is.-  What  do  I  do?  " 

"You  just  come  in  and  wait,"  Joan  told  me,  adding: 
"  It 's  going  to  be  awful,  Dick. " 

I  laughed;  the  affair  came  within  the  dominion  of 
higher  comedy,  and  I  am  eager  to  extract  what  diver- 
sion I  can  from  life. 

At  the  door  of  my  sitting-room  Joan  drew  back  so 
that  I  entered  first;  she,  most  certainly,  was  missing 
the  humour  of  the  situation.  Massingdale  was  smoking 
in  front  of  the  fire,  a  large  atlas  resting  on  his  knees. 
The  room  was  in  deep  shadow  except  for  the  bright 
patch  underneath  the  shaded  lamp,  which  did  not  spread 
much  beyond  the  arm-chair  and  its  occupant;  a  litter 
of  tea-things  stood  on  the  table  and  the  hearth-rug,  and 
the  air  was  misty  with  tobacco  smoke.  The  place  was 
warm  and  comfortable,  and  the  man  before  the  fire 
evidently  very  much  at  his  ease.  He  looked  up  as  I 
entered,  turning  quickly  again  to  make  a  grab  at  the 
atlas,  which  was  slipping  from  his  knees. 

"You  back,  Dick?"  he  said.  "Somebody  has  been 
round  to  see  you,  a  clerk  of  some  sort.  He  worried  me, 
so  I  told  him  that  you  were  defending  the  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury  in  a  libel  action  against  the  Great  Mogul, 
and  that  you  would  dine  at  Lambeth  afterwards.  This 
atlas  of  yours  is  no  good.  I  can't  find  my  route —  I  'm 
sorry — you  did  n't  say  you  had  got  a  visitor  with  you." 

He  had  risen  at  the  sound   of  Joan's  entrance,  had 


A  Woman  Decides  379 

come  half  across  the  room,  distinguishing  nothing,  I 
imagine,  but  furs  and  a  hat,  and  had  recognised  her  as 
she  moved  nearer  to  him.  He  stood  quite  still  staring, 
as  if  he  doubted  that  he  had  seen  right.  Joan  held  out 
her  hand  to  him. 

"You  did  n't  expect  to  see  me,  did  you?"  she  asked, 
hiding  with  considerable  skill  whatever  emotion  she 
felt.  "I  heard  that  you  were  in  London,  and  I  made 
Dick  bring  me.  You  're  quite  fit  again,  I  hope?  I  can 
seethe  scar." 

Massingdale  pulled  himself  together  with  an  obvious 
effort. 

"The  terrible  wound  is  healed,"  he  assured  her. 
"Won't  you  come  by  the  fire,  your  hand  feels  very 
cold?  I  always  make  a  mess,  if  I  'm  alone,  but  it 's 
the  only  comfortable  way  of  having  tea. " 

He  began  collecting  the  things  that  were  on  the  floor, 
and  Joan  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair  that  he  had  left.  It 
struck  me  that  he  took  more  time  than  was  necessary 
over  the  operation,  and  that  of  the  three  persons  in  the 
room  he,  although  he  knew  nothing  of  the  meaning  of 
the  visit,  was  probably  the  most  ill  at  ease.  When  he 
had  finished,  he  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece,  watch- 
ing Joan  quietly,  the  signs  of  wilder  passion  in  his 
eyes;  I,  being  the  spectator,  sat  upon  the  settle  by  the 
fire,  only  asking  that  I  might  not  be  dragged  into 
events;  and  Joan,  having  loosened  the  furs  about 
her  neck,  began  to  draw  off  her  gloves  with  a  certain 
deliberate  care. 

"You  were  looking  at  an  atlas  when  we  came  in," 
said  she  to  Massingdale,  "and  you  said  something 
about  your  route.  Are  you  going  back  to  Paris  again 
so  soon?" 

"Not  to  Paris,"  Massingdale  answered,  "to  the  Anti- 


380  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

podes,  to  the  Pacific  Isles,  to  the  other  end  of  the  world. 
Dick  thinks  I  'm  a  fool,  I  think  that  I  am  wise.  So  do 
great  men  differ.  Europe  is  dull,  or  so  I  find  it;  youth 
is  mine,  that  can't  be  denied;  and  the  jolly  world  is 
wide.  Don't  you  agree  that  I  am  wise,  Miss  Onnington, 
to  go  sailing  off  to  seek  my  fortune,  in  a  real  sailing  ship, 
with  all  sorts  of  things  about  to  happen  to  me?  Dick 
and  suchlike  croakers  are  soulless  animals  to  sneer  at 
such  a  chance." 

He  spoke  in  his  best  laughing  manner,  his  head  back, 
his  eyes  sparkling;  he  told  you  plainly  that  there  was 
purpose  behind  his  laughter,  that  this  was  his  way  of 
treating  such  things  as  held  his  fancy ;  and  his  enthusiasm 
and  cheery  toleration  of  any  opposition  covered  him  like 
a  cloak.  If  he  had  known  Joan's  purpose  in  visiting  him, 
he  could  not  have  played  a  better  throw  to  win  her 
admiration ;  for  he  showed  us  how  he  was  determined  to 
take  all  he  could  get  of  the  joy  of  living,  and,  whatever  of 
sadness  or  of  difficulty  he  might  happen  upon,  to  keep  his 
attention  fixed  on  the  sunshine  rather  than  on  the  shadow. 

Joan  sat  back  in  her  chair,  looking  up  at  Massingdale. 

"You  have  decided  to  go? "  she  asked. 

"  I  sail  in  a  few  days, "  he  answered. 

"And  you  ask  for  my  opinion?" 

"I  should  like  it. " 

She  seemed  to  hesitate  a  second,  and  then,  in  a  voice 
very  low  and  distinct,  keeping  her  eyes  on  his,  she  gave 
her  answer. 

"I  want  you  to  stop  here.  I  don't  want  you  to  go 
away." 

Massingdale  stepped  forward,  and  stood  over  her 
where  she  sat.  Among  the  many  moods  that  I  had 
read  upon  his  face,  I  had  found  no  such  excitement 
as  he  now  showed. 


A  Woman  Decides  381 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded  roughly.  "Tell 
me  what  you  mean. " 

41  Must  I  tell  you  with  Dick  here?"  Joan  replied,  hold- 
ing up  her  hands  to  him.  "I  have  been  an  awful  little 
fool,  Kenneth." 

Massingdale  gripped  her  hands  in  his,  leaning  forward 
and  staring  into  her  face. 

"My  God!"  he  cried;  and  then  checking  any  further 
exhibition  of  his  feelings,  turned  to  me.  "Dick,"  he 
shouted,  "go  and  look  after  that  fool  clerk  of  yours; 
go  and  whistle  on  the  stairs;  go  and  take  a  whisky  and 
soda  with  the  devil,  if  you  want  to;  but  as  you  love  me, 
get  out  of  this. " 

I  retired;  and  if  my  exit,  as  I  take  to  be  the  case, 
suited  them  as  well  as  it  suited  me,  we  were  partners  in 
mutual  satisfaction,  which  was,  I  assume,  the  only 
emotion  that  we  shared  amongst  us  at  the  moment. 

Of  the  subsequent  explanations,  congratulations, 
warnings,  surprise,  satisfaction,  and  displeasure,  I  do 
not  propose  to  write;  they  left  Massingdale  as  they 
found  him,  except  for  the  outpouring  of  a  great  number 
of  words  and  not  a  few  of  his  favourite  gestures.  With 
him  and  his  fortunes,  until  he  reached  a  certain  point  in 
his  career,  I  have  been  concerned,  and  I  see  no  reason 
for  a  lengthy  and  inessential  divergence  from  my  chief 
topic.  That  he  was  duly  and  legally  wedded  to  Joan 
Onnington  in  the  parish  church  of  Elsingham,  towards 
the  end  of  the  following  April,  is  the  fact  that  con- 
cerns him  and  his  history  most  nearly ;  yet  there  happened 
other  events  before  that  ceremony  took  place,  which  show 
him  as  he  was  with  varying  degrees  of  clearness. 

The  Onningtons  and  others  affected  had  to  be  informed 
of  the  turn  of  events.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  they 


382  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

accepted  the  inevitable  with  a  good  grace;  I  avoided 
all  occasions  of  explanation,  as  far  as  I  was  able,  although, 
being  held  an  accessory  to  the  business,  I  was  some- 
times compelled  to  be  present.  My  aunt,  finding  that 
resistance  was  no  more  than  wasted  energy,  smiled  upon 
Massingdale,  and  made  a  successful  attempt  to  forget 
that  he  had  not  married  her  daughter  three  years  before ; 
my  uncle,  after  protesting  that  no  man  could  possibly 
marry,  being  a  pauper,  did  his  best  to  alter  that  condi- 
tion, and  thereby  encountered  much  opposition.  Captain 
Massingdale,  coming  home  on  leave  as  soon  as  he  could 
upon  hearing  the  news,  had  an  interview  with  his  son, 
of  which  I  know  nothing.  Afterwards  they  appeared 
very  much  as  they  had  been  some  years  before,  and 
seemed  both  of  them  anxious  to  persuade  the  world 
that  things  were  well  between  them ;  yet  I  fancy  the 
hurt  that  they  had  both  suffered  went  deeper  than  they, 
wisely,  mean  to  show  us,  and  that  though  the  wound 
is  healed  the  scar  will  always  be  between  them.  They 
are  held  by  most  of  their  acquaintances  as  models  of 
parental  and  filial  good-comradeship,  and  justly  so; 
for  their  friendship  has  withstood  a  shock  that  would 
have  wrecked  a  weaker  union,  and  remains  still  strong, 
in  spite  of  damage  that  cannot  be  entirely  hidden.  One 
incident,  which  occurred  soon  after  their  reconciliation, 
shows  something  of  the  difficult  way  that  these  two 
walked:  Captain  Massingdale  wished  to  recommence 
making  his  son  an  allowance,  but  this  Kenneth  would 
not  have.  I  was  present  at  the  discussion,  and  I  joined 
with  the  father  and  common-sense  in  an  attempt  to 
force  the  income  on  the  son.  Massingdale,  however, 
had  his  own  ideas  on  the  subject;  insisted  that  he  would 
be  independent,  since  he  had  chosen  his  own  career; 
and  would,  I  believe,  have  finally  refused  the  money 


A  Woman  Decides  383 

had  not  his  father  pointed  out  that  the  whole  property 
was  entailed,  and  must  form  part  of  his  inheritance,  if  he 
survived.  At  that  he  agreed  to  accept  the  smallest 
income  that  would  keep  him  and  Joan  from  absolute 
penury,  should  the  painting  fail  to  earn  him  bread. 
It  was  quite  plain,  or  so  I  imagined  it,  that  Massingdale 
would  not  be  able  to  accept  any  favours  from  his  father, 
no  matter  how  ordinary  their  nature,  until  he  had  proved 
his  ability  to  live  by  his  art ;  and  this  circumstance,  for 
Captain  Massingdale  realised  the  cause  of  it  and  how 
it  was  not  only  foolish  pride  on  his  son's  part,  stood  for 
many  years  in  the  way  of  their  complete  comfort. 

One  person  alone,  of  all  his  friends,  found  no  single 
point  that  might  bring  her  happiness  in  the  whole 
business  of  Massingdale's  marriage;  Yvonne  Carrel, 
I  imagine,  saw  in  the  affair  the  death  of  impossible 
hopes.  She  said  and  she  wrote  nothing,  so  far  as  I 
have  ever  heard,  beyond  a  formal  letter  of  congratula- 
tion; but  even  in  the  midst  of  her  success  and  her  riches, 
for  she  had  married  the  man  who  had  bought  her,  she 
mourned  the  ending  of  her  dreams.  She  had  arranged 
her  life,  in  so  far  as  she  had  any  hand  in  its  arrangement, 
wrongly  or  with  insufficient  care,  which  you  will;  and 
one  day  she  was  hurt,  doing  that  which  she  had  done 
often  before.  Because  she  had  so  often  done  this  thing 
in  safety,  with  no  harm,  perhaps,  except  the  one  she 
could  not  realise,  she  was  far  removed  from  any  cure, 
and  had  to  pay  the  price  that  was  asked  of  her.  Con- 
vention is  often  irksome;  nature  has,  and  must  have, 
different  rules  for  men  and  women;  and  when  the 
reckoning  is  handed  in  we  often  find  it  an  ill  job  to 

settle. 

Finally,  Joan  and  Massingdale  settled  down  in  Paris, 
holding  it  the  best  place  for  him  to  finish  his  apprentice- 


384  The  Joyous  Wayfarer 

ship.  While  they  were  travelling  after  the  marriage, 
La  Femme  was  shown  at  the  Salon,  and  attracted  [a 
large  amount  of  attention  and  of  talk.  They  live  in 
a  small  flat  to  which  belongs  a  large  studio,  in  the  region 
of  Montmartre.  Joan  is  somewhat  famed  as  a  hostess, 
and  is  content,  at  which  I  confess  to  some  astonishment, 
to  do  more  than  play  at  poverty;  for  Massingdale's 
genius  has  not  yet  lifted  him  from  the  rank  of  a  poor  man. 
Vanne,  a  very  constant  visitor,  is  inclined  to  offer 
testimony  to  the  excellence  of  their  household. 

" Mon  Dieu,"  he  will  wheeze,  when  I  get  him  alone, 
"it  is  altogether  as  it  should  be:  the  wife  a  woman  of  wit, 
and  beautiful,  the  husband  a  great  artist.  They  under- 
stand each  other,  too,  which  is  not  so  common.  He  was 
born  under  some  lucky  star,  our  good  Massingdale. 
So  much  the  better  for  him,  and,  since  madame  keeps 
open  house,  for  us. " 

And  the  little  man  will  sigh,  thinking,  no  doubt,  of 
his  unpublished  sonatas,  and  the  fame  and  comfort 
that  will  never,  I  am  afraid,  come  his  way.  > 

So,  in  Paris,  at  Barbizon,  sometimes  in  England, 
often  travelling,  Joan  and  Massingdale  make  the  journey 
together ;  and  I  am  ready  to  call  fool  the  man  who  denies 
that  they  were  well  advised  to  take  the  risks  and  dangers, 
in  view  of  the  greater  happiness.  The  one  an  artist, 
a  creature  excellently  fitted  to  find  the  rough  places  which 
lie  beside  the  smooth  in  his  life's  voyage,  the  other  a 
woman,  showing  much  that  a  woman  ought  to  show,  and 
therefore  equipped  in  proper  fashion  to  experience 
sorrow  as  well  as  joy,  they  are  not  likely  to  make  their 
destined  haven  without  the  experience  of  storm  and 
tempest;  but,  since  I  may  claim  to  know  something  of 
them  both,  I  hold  it  probable  that  they  will  sail  together 
more  surely  than  they  did  alone,  and,  however  foul  the 


A  Woman  Decides  385 

•weather  they  encounter,  that  they  will  come  through 
to  sunny  waters,  little  battered,  and  able  to  use  the 
knowledge  that  the  danger  brought  to  them. 

Some  day,  I  suppose,  they  will  settle  in  England, 
but,  until  they  do,  I  shall  look  for  many  pleasant  days 
in  Paris,  with  Massingdale  before  the  studio  fire,  and 
Joan,  more  restful  in  her  attitude,  laughing  at  the 
extravagance  of  her  lord's  conversation.  And  two 
things  I  shall  look  for  above  others :  sympathy  for  many 
different  men  and  their  ideas;  and — this  beyond  a 
doubt — no  lack  of  talk. 


THE     END 

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